


The Bells Of Waiting Advent Ring

by WolfieOnAO3



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (not the actor one; the 1920s socialite one who owned The Gargoyle club), 1700s, 1914, 1920s, 31 Days of Ineffables, Advent, Almost Crack, Asexuality Spectrum, Auld Lang Syne, Aziraphale Can't Cook, Ball, Bickering, Bright Young Things - Freeform, British Comedy, Bureaucracy, Cambridge University - Freeform, Canon - Book, Canon - Good Omens (Book & TV Combination), Champagne, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Lights, Comedy, David Tennant - Freeform, Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Eggnog, Evelyn Waugh - Freeform, Fake Marriage, Family Fluff, Finland, Fire, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Friendship/Love, GNU Terry Pratchett, GRASS YOU CAN WALK ON, Gen, Ghosts, Gold and Silver, Guardian Angels, Guitar, Heaven, History, Holidays, Humor, I spent way too long researching the history of bells on horses for this, Japan, Karaoke, M/M, Mistletoe, New Years, Northern Lights, Nutcracker, Old Married Couple, Original Characters - Freeform, Ouija, Ouija Board, Oxford, Oxford University - Freeform, POTPOURRI, Pen and Zoph, Phone Conversations, Queen - Freeform, Religious Humor, Ridiculousness, Roaring Twenties, Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), Silent Night, Singing, Sleigh Bells, Snake Crowley, Snow, So Married, Soldiers, The South Downs, Tokyo - Freeform, Violence against Plants, War, Worcester college, World War One, Wrapping Paper, Zophiel and Penemue, a little bit of ripping off Jerome k jerome, a little more mild blasphemy, asakusa, best friends in love are wholesome, carol history, caroling, choir, christmas day truce, christmas trees, cranberry - Freeform, demons trying to kidnap little kids, doing miracles for each other, fan fiction advent calendar, franz gruber, gender fluid crowley, hangovers, hastur and ligur, horse riding, international express delivery driver, joseph mohr, light fight!, marie antoinette fashion, mimosas, nancy mitford - Freeform, new years day, non-binary Crowley, pine, seance, snake - Freeform, some light blasphemy, stephan tennant, transatlantic phone calls, vegan crowley, vegetarian crowley, wwi, xmas, yes the Angelic Delinquents are back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 30,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21634297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: 31 Days of IneffablesAdvent Calendar Prompt list, from tumblr user Drawlight!Mostly comedy and fluff, some historical, some a bit sad, some a lot silly... Honestly, if my Inkt-GO-ber challenge is anything to go by, this could goanywhere. The only guarantee is that it will be unabashedly and relentlesslyChristmassy!!!! 😱🌲☃️GOOD OMENS CHRISTMAS, HECK YES!!{teen and up for bad language only :) }
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 165
Kudos: 106





	1. Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Generally throughout this I will probably be writing with Book Canon and Book Characterisations in mind, unless stated otherwise! Well, book with some Radio play influence thrown in (I can’t _not_ hear Peter Serafinowicz when writing Crowley...). And I am very sure that I have been hugely influenced by the Show too, so in reality it’s probably a muddle of all three. Consciously, though, I have the Book in mind whilst writing. But read it as you will!!!! :D

Aziraphale carefully climbed down off of his small wooden stepladder and took a step back to admire his handiwork. He dusted off his hands and smiled the contented smile that belongs only to a Good Job Well Done.

Above the door to his shop now hung, quite conspicuously, a good-sized sprig of mistletoe.

 _Now,_ Aziraphale said to himself with a wry grin, _we wait._

It took a couple of days. In the meanwhile, several loved-up couples blushed and giggled in the doorway of the shop. To Aziraphale’s delight one pair of friends, clearly (to the angel and to everyone else who knew them) head over heels in love with each other but too nervous to do anything about it, finally _did something about it_ , thanks to that angelically imbued little sprig of greenery. Aziraphale felt very much heartened by it.

Aziraphale was sitting at his desk with a cup of cocoa and a good book when he finally heard the familiar rumble of a vintage 1926 Bentley rolling to a halt outside of his shop.

The angel smiled.

Standing up and straightening his sweater vest, Aziraphale walked confidently to the front of the shop. He opened the door just as Crowley was walking up the front steps.

‘Hey, Aziraphale,’ the demon said brightly. 

‘Hello, Crowley,’ the angel replied.

‘Brought whiskey,' he said, brandishing a bottle. 'Good stuff, too.’

‘Lovely, thank you.’

Crowley stopped outside. Aziraphale was standing in the doorway with his hands clasped in front of him. Crowley shot him a quizzical look.

‘All right, angel?’

‘Oh yes. Perfectly fine, thank you,’ Aziraphale nodded.

‘Er… So… You gonna let me in, or…?’

Aziraphale looked up pointedly. 

Crowley looked up bewilderedly.

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley with pursed lips.

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale.

‘ _Mistletoe_?!’ the demon hissed incredulously.

Aziraphale folded his arms. ‘Yes.’

‘What the _fuck_ , Aziraphale?’

The angel spread his perfectly manicured hands and shrugged. ‘A rather archaic symbolism, I know, but I think you’ll find it as efficacious as ever at _warding off evil spirits._ ’

Crowley glared and tried to stick his hand through the doorway. His fist bounced back as though he’d punched a trampoline, and Aziraphale smirked superciliously.

‘Maybe next time you get it in your head to arrange for _emergency roadworks_ that will prevent the running of the _Christmas Parade_ I spent the last month encouraging the council to organise, you’ll _think better of it_.’

'No, look, angel, I didn't know that--'

'You bloody well did. You knew _exactly_ what you were doing, Anthony J. Crowley. You didn't want that parade going outside your flat. I know you, you old serpent. And if you think you can swan back in here after _ruining_ all of my _hard work_... Well. Think again.'

Aziraphale leaned out and took the bottle of very good whiskey from the demon's unresisting hands, and patted him on the cheek.

‘Thank you for the whiskey, dear boy. Merry Christmas.’

And then he shut the door.

Crowley blinked.

Crowley scoffed.

Crowley shook his head.

Crowley leaned down and shouted through the letter box:

‘Yeah, Merry Christmas, you _complete bastard!’_


	2. Snow

Crowley stamped his feet and breathed warm air onto his hands.

‘I don’t see why we have to be out here so _early_ , Aziraphale,’ the demon complained bitterly. ‘Why couldn’t we just show up, see the lights, and bugger off back home. You know, where it isn’t _thirty below_.’

Aziraphale tutted. ‘It’s barely below zero, Crowley. Do please try to be sensible...’

‘I’m _cold_ . I cannot be both sensible _and_ cold at the same time. It’s one or the other, angel.’

‘You must be cold all the bloody time then,’ the angel muttered under his breath.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing. Look, Crowley, _you_ are the one who _insisted_ we come to see the Aurora Borealis. I would have been quite happy spending the holiday season at home with a good book and a nice fire. It was _you_ that _dragged_ us all the way to Finland, not me.’

Crowley grimaced forlornly as he thought of the living room of their holiday cottage on the South Downs, with its cosy little fireplace, and its deep, squishy sofa with a stack of fluffy blankets thrown over the back, ready and waiting for him whenever he started feeling a bit shivery. God, he wished he were there right now.

‘Bugger the bloody cottage,’ Crowley snapped. ‘We’ve spent the last, what, seven? eight? _however many_ Christmases on the South Downs, Aziraphale. I’m _bored_ of it. Just thought we could, you know, mix it up a bit. And I haven’t seen the Northern Lights in ages.’

‘Well stop complaining, then!’

Crowley waved his hands irritatedly. ‘Me complaining?! What am I complaining about!’

‘The cold!’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ Crowley huffed, vapor pluming from his mouth as his warm breath hit the cold air. He glared at it, as if it were to blame for the weather, rather than a symptom of it.

‘Look, I am sure that we will have a wonderful time,’ Aziraphale persisted. ‘And it won’t be so cold once we are inside. I expect you are rather glad I dissuaded you from your ridiculous suggestion that we stay in an _ice hotel_ now, aren’t you?’

 _So, so, so glad_ , Crowley thought.

‘No. Ice Hotels are _cool_ , Aziraphale,’ he said. ‘Er, pun not intended. Would’ve been ace, staying in an ice hotel. Bit _different_ , you know?’ He shivered. ‘The glass tent things look pretty good though. You know, as a compromise.’

‘And _they_ are precisely why we have to be here _early_ , dear boy. The accommodation is only accessible via those awful snow mobile monstrosities.’ The angel pursed his lips. ‘Or by the _much safer_ sled-dog--’

‘I’m not getting pulled anywhere by a _wolf_.’

‘They aren’t wolves, Crowley, they are huskies, and they are very well trained--’

Crowley shook his head. ‘Nope. Not happening. Not trusting my life to a domesticated _predator._ And anyway, you know I don’t like animal exploitation.’

Aziraphale sighed and shook his head. They’d had this debate far too many times, and Crowley knew full well the angel’s opinion on the matter. And he knew exactly what Aziraphale thought about a demon being so concerned with _animal rights_. But, Crowley reasoned, if Heaven was all for the animal kingdom being under humankind’s dominion, then it was really the only properly demonic stance to take to be a dedicated (if unbearably reluctant) vegan. Plus, you know, _PETA_ were definitely infernally tainted. So.

‘Fine,’ Aziraphale continued. ‘The point is that with the unpredictability of the weather, we need to be waiting at the pick up point _early_ so that we don’t risk not getting up there at all. If only this blasted snow would stop…’

‘Can we at least go and wait in the main hotel?’ Crowley said, fully aware of how whiny his voice was becoming, but being too cold and too irritated to stop it. ‘Why do we have to wait outside?’

‘They said that the convoy would be here soon. Be patient.’

‘I can be _patient_ in _side_ ,’ the demon whined. ‘I can be _patient_ with a hot mug of irish coffee, sitting in an armchair. Why do I have to be patient in the bloody _snow?_ ’

‘We can go home if you want,’ Aziraphale said.

‘No! I don’t-- Look, this is _fun_ , Aziraphale. The Northern Lights are brilliant. This is a very good way to spend Christmas. All right?’

‘All right.’

Crowley stamped his feet again. His toes were going numb. 

‘They said that the tent things would have a woodburner, right?’ he asked for the fourth time today.

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale answered, again.

‘And proper blankets and--’

‘Crowley, for the exorbitant prices they charge I would be very surprised if they didn’t provide the basic luxury of _not being cold_ . Each pod comes with its own adjacent _sauna_ , for Goodness’ sake. I am sure that you will be plenty warm enough. Please stop _fussing_.’

‘When’s it going to stop snowing?’

Aziraphale looked up at the sky with narrowed eyes. The clouds were thick and grey and solidly omnipresent. 

‘They _said_ within the next hour…’

‘If those clouds don’t clear we’ll be in a glass-domed tent staring up at a sky that looks exactly like our own bedroom ceiling.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Won’t even be able to _see_ the lights, at this rate…’

‘Hmm…;

‘And if that’s the whole point of _being_ here…’

‘...What are you suggesting?’ Aziraphale said, finally taking the bait.

‘Nothing. Just seems a bit pointless, travelling all that way to stay in a fancy tent in the middle of nowhere to then not even see the Aurora borealis.’

‘Crowley, we have already travelled all the way to _Finland_ …’

‘Can’t we just, you know, rebook for another night, or something?’

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Crowley, it is four days before Christmas. It took a minor miracle to get this booked in _September_ . We will _not_ be able to simply change our booking now.’

‘Yeah, but--’

‘I know what you are going to say, and no. They will _not_ rebook us because it’s a bit cloudy. They aren’t _God_ , they can’t can’t control the weather. They can hardly be expected to run a business on that basis, can they? And no, we can’t _pray_ for the snow to stop either…’

Crowley scowled. ‘Wasn’t going to suggest that.’

‘Do you want to go home?’ Aziraphale asked plaintively.

_Yes, yes, very much yes_

‘No! No. But, look, I’m just saying, it might be more _sensible_ to-- I don’t _want_ to, but…’

‘How about this,’ Aziraphale said. ‘If the convoy doesn’t show up within the next thirty minutes, we’ll not bother with it. We’ll find somewhere else to stay. I’m sure we could find some acceptably comfortable hotel, even at this short notice. All right?’

Crowley nodded.

Ten minutes later, the convoy showed up, ready to take them on the forty-five minute trek to where they would be spending the next four days.

‘Oh, look! They’re here,’ Crowley said as happily as he could. ‘Yay...’

‘Wonderful,’ Aziraphale said, as sincerely happy as Crowley wasn’t. ‘See, dear chap, all worked out in the end. Just have to have a little faith and a little patience.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Come along, then!’

‘Yeah. Brilliant.’

 _Bugger. Bollocks. Bloody bollocking buggering hell_ , Crowley thought as he clung onto a wickedly fast snowmobile pelting it’s way through the icy Finnish landscape. _Why did I think this was a good idea? Why on Earth did I think I would enjoy spending Christmas in the bloody snow, in a bloody forest, in a bloody fancy bloody tent, just to see some bloody gas particles smashing into each other? I could be curled up on the sofa watching_ It’s A Wonderful Life _and listening to Aziraphale stumble his way through terrible carols on the piano. Goddamnit..._

During the ride over, the snow stopped falling and the clouds cleared. When they reached the glass-domed tents, Crowley was pleased to find that not only were they every bit as comfortable as the brochure had suggested, but were also deliciously warm. Through the flexi-glass panels the sky encircled them, crystal clear and of the deepest shade of blue imaginable, punctured with more stars than either Crowley or Aziraphale had seen in decades. 

‘You were right,’ Aziraphale said softly as they both sat back on the fluffy pillows and stared up into the night sky. 

‘What about?’

‘This trip. Much better than another year at the cottage. This is _magical_ , Crowely. I forget, sometimes, just how _miraculous_ this world is. It’s so easy to become wrapped up in habit and routine and the mundane. One allows one’s world to become small, almost self-limiting. But look at this. This world really is wonderful, isn’t it? So much beauty. So much worth _protecting_.’

Crowley turned his head from the Heavens above them and looked over at his friend. 

‘Eh, it’s all right,’ he said with a warm smile. ‘But I think I prefer the South Downs, to be honest.’

Aziraphale turned to look back at him, and stared intently for a handful of moments.

‘Oh, Crowley,’ the angel said quietly. ‘After everything, after all of the nonsense getting here, after all of the stress, all of the grumbling about the cottage and all of our becoming jaded and just a little ungrateful, after me being so reluctant to do this and you being as persuasive as always… After all of the minor miracles I had to perform to get us here... You know, I really just have to say, my dear boy: You had _better be bloody joking._ ’


	3. Nutcracker

‘Argh!’

From out of the kitchen, Aziraphale heard a sudden clattering, as though several items, possibly breakable, had just been knocked off of the table.

He poked his head around the door.

‘Good Lord, Crowley! Whatever do you think you are playing at?’

Aziraphale had been prompted to utter this cry on account of the fact that, upon poking his head through the kitchen door, he found himself staring at his erstwhile arch-nemesis scrabbling up on the kitchen table with a horrified look on his face.

‘Get down!’ the angel demanded, as though Crowley were some sort of disobedient cat. ‘Tch! You’ve knocked my Sunderland jug over. It’s got a crack in it.’

‘What,’ Crowley said in a voice more hissed than spoken, ‘is _that?’_

‘What is what?’ Aziraphale asked as he bent to pick up the various items his barely-domesticated demon had shoved to the floor during his latest theatrical episode.

Crowley pointed to a little figurine on the countertop near the fridge, propped against a bowl of nuts.

_‘That.’_

‘What? The nutcracker?’

‘Yes the— That. Why is _that_ here?’

‘Oh for Goodness’ sake, Crowley,’ Aziraphale sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. ‘Are there _any_ Christmas things that _aren’t_ demon repellants? I should have just decked your apartment out in Yuletide decorations instead of giving you that Holy Water, would have been a great deal more efficient…’

‘No, Nu— those things aren’t—‘ Crowley scowled in that particular way Aziraphale recognised as him being reluctant to say something that he knew he really ought.

‘Spit it out, dear boy,’ he said as he set the jug back down on the table, eying the sizeable crack and wondering to himself whether it was worth miracling it repaired.

‘Look just… I don’t want you try and use a N--gk— one of those _things_ as a defense if Hastur or Ligur or whoever unexpectedly shows up one day. Mistletoe, yeah, maybe,but not…’

Azirphale chuckled at the idea of himself facing down any would-be Hellish assassins with a sprig of mistletoe in one hand and a little wooden nutcracker in the other. It would certainly give them pause for thought, at least. Perhaps, Aziraphale wondered, that was why Crowley always insisted on being so imaginatively out-of-the-box. Keep Hell on the back foot. 

‘It’s not funny.’

Aziraphale dutifully sobered up.

‘What you are trying to say, in so many words, is that Nutcrackers do not, in fact, hold any intrinsic power against evil spirits? Correct?’

‘Yes. Or, I mean, not really. I think they are sort of a good luck charm, or maybe they once were or…’He trailed off, glancing warily at the offending wooden soldier.

‘Then what on earth is the problem?’

Crowley grimaced, and he looked so wretched that Aziraphale felt quite guilty, both for scolding him and for laughing. The angel put his hand on the demon’s back and patted it reassuringly. 

‘Crowley?’

‘It’s just…’

‘Yes?’

Crowley exhaled irritably. ‘They just freak me out, all right?’

Aziraphale blinked. ‘...I’m sorry?’

‘Well, look at it. Its dead-eyed wooden face with that weird mouth and those horrible teeth... I don’t like it. It's _creepy.’_

Aziraphale stared at Crowley for a few moments. ‘Creepy,’ he repeated blankly.

‘Yeah. Don’t you think?’

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I thought you _liked_ “creepy”. You are a _demon_.’

‘Yeah, but, I mean-- That’s for-- Those things aren’t _meant_ to be creepy. They’re meant to be… I have no idea what they are meant to be, actually. They’re just _wrong_. I _hate_ them,’ he shuddered.

‘Crowley, are you telling me that you jumped onto the kitchen table, knocking over my antique jug, among other things, because _the nutcracker frightens you?_ ’

‘Look, it startled me, okay?! There I was, making a cup of tea, minding my own business, then suddenly this, this, this _face_ is leering up at me!’

‘And you are on the table why?’ Aziraphale said, exasperated. 

‘Er.’

The angel sighed. He was being a bit hard on the chap, really. Crowley may be a bizarre, dramatic, mercurial ball of neuroses in human-shaped-form, but he was _Aziraphale’s_ bizarre, dramatic, mercurial ball of neuroses in human-shaped-form, after all.

‘Would you like me to dispose of the Nutcracker?’

‘It’s not irrational, Aziraphale.’

‘Would you like me to _dispose_ of the Nutcracker?’

‘Look, I don’t-- It’s not-- I know you think I’m over reacting, but I’m telling you, those things are--’

‘ _Would you like me to dispose of the Nutcracker_?’ Aziraphale repeated for the third time.

‘Erm. Yes.’

‘Okay.’

Crowley narrowed his eyes. ‘“ _Okay_ ”? That’s it? You’re not going to-- I don’t know, argue about it? Try to convince me that I’m being dramatic?’

‘No.’

Crowley looked a little put out. ‘Why not?’

‘Honestly? I’m inclined to agree with you. They are rather horrid little things, aren’t they, now that you mention it.’

‘Yes! They are! I knew I wasn’t wrong about that. Are you sure Heaven didn’t have some hand in making them? They’ve got that weird, misguided, “ _someone-who-doesn’t-quite-understand-how-humans-work_ ” heavenly handiwork written all over them if you ask me.’

Aziraphale inspected the little figure from across the room. ‘No, I’m fairly certain they are entirely mundane in their origins.’ The angel pulled a face. ‘Oh, but they really are rather unnerving when you look at them properly, aren’t they...’

‘What did you buy it for?’

The angel frowned. ‘You know, I don’t-- I don’t recall acquiring it at all, actually.’

Crowley swallowed nervously. ‘Hah. Very funny.’

‘But I must have done,’ Aziraphale continued, half to himself. ‘At some point or another. Or someone must have gifted it to me, or…’

They both stared at the Nutcracker, it’s uneven and unfocused blue eyes boring into them from where it stood on the counter top.

‘Did it just open its mouth?’

Aziraphale didn’t say yes, but he also didn’t say no.

From the living room, the radio suddenly and without warning began to play Tchaikovsky’s _Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairy_.

‘Did you do that?!’

Aziraphale shook his head.

‘Oh _bugger this_ ,’ Crowley snapped, and he sprung down from the table, snatched up the offending decoration, and skittered into the living room. Aziraphale followed, and watched as the demon hopped over the back of the sofa and chucked the Nutcracker into the burning fireplace.

They both stared, half expecting a plume of coloured smoke to burst forth, or an eldritch scream to pour from the figure’s open mouth. 

Nothing happened.

‘Huh,’ Crowley said.

‘Did we,’ Aziraphale began in a ponderous tone of voice, ‘two supernatural entities older than the earth itself, who have in our long history achieved such feats as facing down Satan himself, and sitting through the entirety of the 2012 production of _Jesus Christ Superstar_ , just allow ourselves to become genuinely afraid that a Christmas Decoration was, for want of a better word, _possessed_? Crowley, we need to stop watching so many horror movies. This is getting ridiculous. This is the fourth thing we’ve thrown in the fireplace since Halloween.’

☃

Somewhere in Hell a demon rematerialised, slightly singed. 

'Any luck?' Ligur asked.

‘Nah,’ the demon Hastur said, dusting himself off. ‘Those two are impossible. Cottoned on straight away, they did. Threw me in the bloody fire.’

‘Told you it wouldn’t work,’ said Ligur, patting his friend on the back. ‘They’re too smart.’

‘Well, it was worth a try.’


	4. Cranberry

It is a well known fact that although demons dance terribly, they nonetheless do so with great enthusiasm. A lesser known fact is that their singing follows suit.

_♫But you see! It’s not me! It’s not myyyyyyy fa-muh-leeeeee, in your he-ea-ad in your head, they are fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiightin’!♫_

‘Crowley.’

_♫With their tanks! And their bombs! And their bombs! And their guns! In your he-ea-ead, in your head, they are cryyyyyyyyin’...♫_

‘Crowley…’

_♫IN YOUR HE-EEEAAAAA-EAAAAD! IN YOUR HEEEE-EEAAAA-EEAAAAAD! ZOOOO-OOOOO-MBBIIIIEEE! ZOOOO-OOOOO-MBBIIIIEEE♫_

These latter lines were accompanied by some equally enthusiastic head-banging, which made Aziraphale clutch desperately at the Bentley’s passenger-side grab-bar.

‘Crowley!’

The radio’s on-off switch clicked.

 _♫ZOOOO-OOOOOMBIEE EH EH EH OH OH♫ ‘_ \--Oh…’ Crowley glanced at the now-silent radio, and then at the angel in the passenger seat. ‘Where did the music go?’

‘I turned it off.’

‘Why? That is an _excellent_ song, Aziraphale.’ 

‘Hmmm…’ Aziraphale murmured in a tone which suggested that whilst this particular opinion was not one which he shared with his would-be-punk-rocker demon associate, he was experienced enough to know which battles to pick, and that was not one of them. ‘It’s not very _festive_ . Can we not listen to Christmas music? Get into the _spirit_ of things.’

‘Ugh...’

‘Crowley, don’t you try and posture with me, my boy. I know that you like Christmas songs just as much as I do.’

Crowley raised an eyebrow. ‘I do _not_ . And _anyway_ ,’ he said, sliding into the serpentine tone of voice he always used when trying to be persuasive, ‘ _Zombie_ is _sort of_ a Christmas song. A case could definitely be made for it.’

Aziraphale folded his arms. He _knew_ that tone all too well. ‘Now, I know that I am not what one might call an expert on _modern music_ , but I think I know enough to be quite confident in stating that the song that you were just singing, rather loudly I might add, is about as far from a Christmas song as you can get. Isn’t it about the IRA? Not exactly what I’d call _Joyeux Noël_...’

Aziraphale had slid into the tone of voice he always used when baiting Crowley into an argument. Crowley knew _that_ tone all too well. 

‘Right,’ Crowley said, setting his jaw firmly. ‘Firstly, the band is called _The Cranberries._ ’

Aziraphale frowned and stared out of the window for a few moments.

‘What?’

 _'T_ _he Cranberries_ ,’ Crowley repeated, glancing back and forth between the angel and the road.

 _‘So?_ ’

‘You know. Cranberries. Like people have with Christmas dinner. Red stuff. Like jelly, except they put it on turkey and sprouts instead of having it with ice cream like civilised people. Which, by the way, what is the deal with _that_ ? It’s practically _jam_. That’s not right.’

‘It’s actually rather good,’ Aziraphale said, a little dreamily. 

‘Whatever. The point is, cranberries are a decidedly _Christmassy_ … What are they? A fruit? Not a nut… Are they?’

‘...Berries, Crowley. The clue _is_ in the name…’

‘Oh, right, yeah. Well, christmassy _berries_ , then. So that’s one point immediately in the _It Is A Christmas Song_ column.’

‘Even if I were to accept your frankly _absurd_ suggestion that a band’s _name_ has any bearing on the genre of music they produce, I would still have to question your assertion that cranberries are particularly Christmassy.’

‘Why? They are!’

‘Only since the _1900s_ . And even then, they were far more predominantly associated with _Thanksgiving_ in America. It’s a relatively new phenomenon.’

‘So what? So’s the _Delia Smith Christmas Special_. Doesn’t make it any less christmassy.’

‘Well,’ Aziraphale said. ‘The point still stands that the band’s name has absolutely zero relation to whether or not one can reasonably asservate that a song is a Christmas song. Absolutely ridiculous notion.’

‘Right. Well. _Jesus._ ’

‘You don’t need to swear at me just because I’m _right_.’

‘What?’ Crowley blinked, and then laughed in spite of himself. ‘No! Not “Jesus!”; _Jesus._ The Nazarene. Yeshua ben Yosef. Or ben _God_ , I suppose, depending on what view you take. _That_ Jesus.’

Sighing, Aziraphale asked, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, ‘And how are you going to spuriously relate _that_ to your fad song of the week?’

‘It’s not a _fad,_ Aziraphale, it’s-- No, look, don’t distract me. Jesus. Christmas is his birthday, right?’

‘Well, no, of course not. You know that as well as I do--’

‘Ah bahbahbahbahbah!--’ Crowley shushed, shooing Aziraphale’s protestations away with a flick of his wrist. ‘In the _story_ . That’s the whole point. None of it’s _true_ , is it? it’s the _story_ that matters. The mythology. That’s the good bit. Who wants to hear about another boring baby in a house in Nazareth, like a zillion other babies who have been boringly born without any fanfare whatsoever. When you _could_ hear about _The Son Of God_ being born in Bethlehem, heralded by a dickhead angel, born in a _cow shed_ , and visited by _Kings_ who were led to him by a _star_ going on a walkabout. That’s _Christmas_ , angel.’ Crowley tilted his head. ‘Well, that and rampant commercialism, of course.’

‘What does this have to do with anything?’

‘ _Zombie!_ ’ 

Aziraphale shook his head. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Well, I mean, Jesus was kind of a zombie, wasn’t he? The whole _rising up from the dead_ , thing. Classic zombie behaviour.’

‘But he didn’t rise up from the dead. You know that. We were _there_ \--’

‘Aziraphale, what did I _just_ say?’

‘Yes, well. In any case, that is the _Easter_ story, not _Christmas_.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ 

The demon frowned.

‘Do you have anything else?’

‘Er. Not really.’

‘Then, my dear, that was one of your worst arguments yet. Even worse than the time you tried arguing that aliens built the pyramids.’

‘Hey, leave Giorgio out of this.’

‘Can I _please_ put on some Christmas music, now?’

Crowley huffed. _‘Fine,_ ’ he growled. 

Then he remembered the _100 Best Christmas Hymns Of All Time_ CD that he had shoved into the glove compartment after Aziraphale had left it on the back seat. 

After Aziraphale had left it on the back seat fifteen days ago…

Crowley bit down on a smirk. Well, if he couldn’t listen to _The Cranberries_ , he could at least listen to _Queen_. _Anything_ was better than bloody _Christmas songs_. 

‘I think that Christmas Carols CD of yours is still in the glove box,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Stick that in, if you like.’

Aziraphale did.

Freddie Mercury’s voice filled the car.

_Oh, my love… We’ve had our share of tears…_

‘What’s this?’ Aziraphale said, scanning the song list on the back of the case.

_Oh, my friends, we’ve had our hopes and fears…_

‘This is the wrong CD. I don’t recognise this at all.’

 _Oh, my friends, it’s been a long, hard year_ …

Crowley groaned. ‘I do…’

_But now it’s Christmas… Yes it’s Christmas…._

‘Isn’t this _Queen_ , Crowley?’

Crowley made a strangled noise from the back of his throat as the angel shot him a pointed, pouted grin. 

_Thank Go-o-o-od it’s Chriiiiiistmaaaaaaas!_

‘It seems that the Bentley is rather in agreement with me on the subject of Christmas songs,’ said Aziraphale smugly. He gave the dashboard an affectionate pat. ‘I’ll have to get her some tinsel. Maybe a little Christmas Tree air freshener.’

Crowley could have sworn the Bentley’s engine began humming along with Aziraphale.

‘Urgh… Bollocks to the both of you.’

☃

_♫Thank God it’s Christmas!_

_Yes, yes, yes, yes it’s Christmas!_

_Thank God it’s Christmas!_

_For… One… Da-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y!♫_


	5. Fire

_ December 24th, 1914. The Western Front.  _

* * *

**German Trenches**

It was cold. 

Half-frozen pools of mud-slush sat at the bottom of the trenches. Everything was wet and so, in temperatures approaching below zero, everything was icy. Everything was bleak. 

And the War was dragging ever on. 

‘Come, now,’ a middle-aged man in uniform said to the group of dejected soldiers scattered around him. ‘It’s Christmas Day, my dear fellows. Is that not something to be happy about, at least? Heinrich? Otto?’

‘We should be home with our families, Captain,’ Otto replied, bitterly. ‘Not here, sitting in freezing trenches, getting shot at by the bloody English, if typhus or trench fever doesn’t kill us first. There’s  _ nothing _ to be happy about. It’s just another day like all of the others. What is good is Christmas in Hell?’

The Captain said nothing. He had nothing that he could say. The man was right, of course.

Otto shook his head in disdain, and turned away.

* * *

**English Trenches**

A young soldier sat with his feet propped up on the walls of a trench, trying to keep his feet out of the way of an icy puddle as he struggled in vain to light his cigarette.

‘Your matches are damp. Here.’

‘Thanks,’ the young soldier said as he reached across to take the lighter offered by a dark-haired stranger with a gloomy voice and sunglasses. He lit his cigarette and passed the lighter back. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘Don’t think I seen you ‘ere before?’

The man took back the lighter and lit a cigarette of his own, saying nothing. 

‘Well, I’m Henry,’ replied the boy - for he was little more than a boy - leaning forward and extending his hand. ‘Henry Watkins.’

* * *

**German Trenches**

‘Hey, come on, Otto, cheer up,’ a soldier whispered. ‘At least Captain Fell is trying to keep our spirits up. Could be worse. Remember Captain Weber? All he’d do is shout all the time. At least Ezra  _ talks _ to us. Treats us like  _ people _ . You shouldn’t be so hard on him, Otto. It’s not his fault we’re here.’

‘My sister,’ said Otto, staring up at the grey sky, ‘had a baby three weeks ago. Little girl. She named her Ottilie. Her father, my sister’s husband, he’s a solider too. I don’t know where he’s posted. Neither does my sister. Don’t even know if he’s alive.’

Otto cupped his hand to light his pipe. ‘Ottilie will spend her first Christmas without her father. And without her uncle. And if this war carries on like this, she’ll no doubt spend next Christmas without us, too. In fact,’ he continued, ‘I don’t doubt that the girl will have to spend every Christmas without her father or her uncle. Because, Heinrich, it is extremely likely that we are all going to  _ die _ .’

‘Ah, Otto, don’t say things like that. You don’t know that. None of us know what--’

‘Go away, Heinrich,’ Otto cut in, dully. ‘I don’t wanna talk to you. I don’t want to talk to anyone.’

‘Okay. Well, if you change your mind—‘

‘I won’t.’

Heinrich turned back towards the Captain, and called out to him. ‘Hey, Captain Fell?’

‘Yes? Yes, Heinrich? Is everything…’ 

Aziraphale trailed off. He had begun to say  _ Is everything all right? _ But of course it wasn’t.  _ Nothing _ was right about  _ any _ of this.

Aziraphale had been in wars before, of course, here on Earth. On the frontlines, even, doing what he could to relieve some suffering, performing as many miracles as he could manage - misfired arrow here, a dodged cannonball there, an infection unexpectedly dying down at the critical point... He couldn’t do much, not in the grand scheme of things; he was only one angel, after all. But he did what he could. He did his best.

But this… This was different. This was… This was almost beyond words.

Aziraphale really wasn’t sure  _ what _ he could do to help.

Nevertheless.

* * *

**English Trenches**

The dark-haired man sighed, and stared carefully at Henry for a few moments, before he finally leaned forward and shook the boy’s hand. ‘‘My name’s Crowley,’ he replied, glumly. ‘Anthony Crowley.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Anthony’ Henry said, far too chipper. Far too  _ young _ .

‘Yeah, same. How old are you, Henry?’

‘Seventeen,’ the boy replied. ‘Eighteen on the 28th, ack’shully. Bit of an awkward birthday, that. It’s kinda funny, ‘cause me mam always bakes these incredible cakes fer me birthday, even though no-one ever wants to eat ‘em, not after all that food at Christmas, like. She still always bakes ‘em though. Says it ain’t my fault that I were born when I was, and that it w’un’t be fair fer me to miss out on a cake jus’ ‘cause everyone else’d been greedy pigs over ‘th’holiday.’ He laughed, and then he stopped, and then he bit his lip. 

Crowley stayed silent. 

‘Wonder what they’re all doin’ at home now?’ Henry continued. ‘Prob’ly got a Christmas tree up. Singing carols and the like. My sister, Florrie, she fancies herself as a bit of a singer. She’s only thirteen, and a right pain in the arse,’ he laughed. ‘She’d always be singing, all hours of th’day. Drove me mad.’ He looked down at his boots, heavy with mud and ice. ‘...I’d give anythin’ to hear her singing right now.’

The boy’s voice caught in his throat and he sniffed, brushing tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

‘This i’nt no way to spend Christmas,’ he said.

‘No,’ Crowley agreed. ‘It’s not really, is it?’

He was supposed to be there to cause trouble. Unspecified. Widespread. But what trouble could he possibly create that even came  _ close _ to what these humans were making other humans do to one another? 

He’d say that it was Hellish, but Hell didn’t come close to this.

He wanted to leave. He kept  _ trying  _ to. But every time he’d decided to go and disappear to some distant tropical island with a lot of alcohol in tow, he’d meet another Henry. Another Jack. Another Tommy. Another poor, stupid kid roped into this insanity, and what was he supposed to do then? 

Crowley didn’t like to learn their names. If he didn’t know their names, it was easier to leave. Easier to move on. Easier for it not to be his problem. Easier to forget. 

Crowley  _ always _ learned their names.

* * *

**German Trenches**

‘What do you do for Christmas, Captain Fell?’ Heinrich asked with an impudent grin. ‘Back home, wherever that is for you. What do you do?’

Aziraphale smiled at the man. He liked Heinrich. He was considerate, and hopeful, and decent, and he always had a smile on his face and a kind word for everyone, even in the middle of all of this. So  _ resilient _ . He was a good person, even under such adversity. Aziraphale was determined to do whatever he could to help preserve that spark of goodness. To preserve them all, God help him. 

‘Oh, well, I suppose I would be enjoying a good meal,’ Captain Fell said. ‘And then sitting by the fire, admiring the tree, perhaps even singing a few carols. Probably enjoying a good glass of port,’ he chuckled. ‘What about you, Heinrich? How would you be spending this Christmas, were it not for…’ Captain Fell cleared his throat. ‘Do you have any particular Christmas traditions?’

‘Not really. Not of my own. Not yet, anyway. My family, my mum and dad and sisters and uncles and, well, the whole lot of them, they always celebrate together, usually. Which is lovely, and-- but I’d been hoping to…’ Heinrich grinned sheepishly. ‘You see, I only got married in February. To Anna.  _ My wife, _ ’ he laughed. ‘Still seems strange, saying that. Still can’t quite believe it. Can’t believe she’d have me, clever girl like that with an idiot like me? Well, anyway, I had been hoping to have a Christmas sort of away from my family, this year. I love them, of course, but I wanted to make it our own...’ He sighed. ‘Lesson in being careful what you wish for, eh?’

‘Tell me about her,’ Aziraphale said, kindly. ‘How did you meet?’

Heinrich smiled and stared up into the sky. ‘Known her ages. She grew up next door. Best friends with my sister. We used to read books together when we should have been asleep. There was this low roof that connected our two houses, and we used to climb out of our bedroom windows at night and sit on it, all curled up under blankets, and read books together. Her dad caught us once and went completely mad. Thought we were  _ up to no good _ . But we were just reading. And talking.’ He smiled up at the Captain. ‘She’s my best friend.’

‘You must miss her.’

‘Yeah,’ he laughed. Heinrich always laughed. Even when he was sad. ‘I miss her so much that I really don’t know how I’m meant to bear it.’

Aziraphale put his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What about you, Captain? Anyone back home for you to miss?’

Aziraphale smiled wistfully and looked up into the grey sky. ‘Yes. There’s one person.’

‘Just the one?’

‘Yes. Just the one.’

‘Special?’

‘ _ Exceptionally  _ so.’

* * *

**English Trenches**

‘What about you?’ Henry asked with a sniff. ‘Who’ve you got waitin’ for you back ‘ome, then?’

Crowley took a draw of his cigarette and shook his head.

‘No one, really.’

‘Aw, come off it. Everyone’s got someone.’

Exhaling a plume of smoke into the cold air, Crowley looked up into the grey sky.  _ Ah, fuck it _ , he thought.

‘I’ve got a friend. Known him… well, forever, it feels like. I don’t know that he’s particularly _waiting_ for me, but...’

‘Is ‘e a soldier, too? Like you?’

I suppose he is. Not quite like me but… Well, he’s more like me than the people he’s fighting for, put it that way.’

Henry shook his head, confused. ‘What d’jya mean?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Well, maybe you’ll, I dunno, run into him som’where out ‘ere. If ‘e’s a soldier, I mean. You never know.’

‘Yeah, maybe. I haven’t seen him in a while.’

‘Oh. ‘Aven’t you?’

‘No.’ Crowley set his jaw resolutely and frowned, staring at the side of the trench pensively. Then he turned to look at the boy square on. ‘And you know what, Henry? I really bloody miss--’ 

Crowley stopped mid sentence and sat up straight. ‘Do you hear that?’

* * *

**German Trenches**

Otto began to sing.

Quietly, at first, almost inaudible, but not quite. And then he got louder, his voice harsh, and raw, and painfully beautiful against the backdrop of mud, and barbed wire, and fear, and death.

He sang a Christmas carol.

Aziraphale stared at him, and then glanced at Heinrich, catching the man’s eye, which was brimming with tears. 

Heinrich smiled. And then he began to sing, too.

* * *

**English Trenches**

‘Is that  _ singing? _ ’ Crowley said, scrabbling to his feet.

‘Get down!’ Henry hissed anxiously, pulling at Crowley’s arm. ‘It ain’t safe! Yer gonna get yerself shot!’

‘Shhh! Listen. Can you hear that?’

‘No, I don’t hear nothing--’ Henry stopped. ‘No, wait. I can. Wassat? Issat the Germans? What’re they doin’? Are they  _ singin’? _ ’

‘Hah!’ Crowley shook his head with disbelief. ‘Yes they are, Henry. You bloody people. In the middle of all of this chaos and, and--  _ look at you. _ Singing Christmas songs!’ Crowley grinned wildly and poked his head above the edge of the trench.  _ ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS!’  _ he shouted. ‘Er, I mean  _ FROHLICHE WEIHNACTEN!  _ Hah!’

From across the battlefield, a smattering of  _ Merry Christmas! _ ’s echoed back to them.

Henry’s eyes lit up. Copying Crowley he stood up and cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his gleeful, youthful shouts. ‘ _ MERRY CHRISTMAS! _ ’ he yelled out, beaming from ear to ear.  _ ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS!’ _

* * *

**German and English Trenches**

And then everyone was singing. 

Candles were pulled out of rucksacks and placed, burning, along the tops of the trenches, despite the danger inherent in doing so.  _ In spite _ of the danger. In spite of the  _ war _ .

In spite of everything, the soldiers  _ sang _ .

* * *

** No Man’s Land **

Two sides of a battlefield, two sides of a war, joined together in song. An unofficial, unauthorised ceasefire. 

A back and forth had broken out between the English and the Germans. Only now, on Christmas Day, they were trading songs instead of bullets and tear gas. 

* * *

Aziraphale wasn’t sure where along the lines it had started, or even on which side, but gradually the soldiers, German and English alike, began to make their way into the middle of the battlefield. Into a No Man’s Land which, on this one day, became  _ Every Man’s Land. _

Heinrich and Otto and the others had swiftly decided that they would be among the number heading over the top. Once there, Otto had started an impromptu football game with some of the English lads, kicking around a tin can. It was the first time Aziraphale had seen the man laugh.

Because, of course, Aziraphale had gone with them. To try to keep people safe in case anything went wrong, obviously, but also because he was  _ fascinated _ . He could feel  _ love _ , in the middle of all of this. It was  _ unimaginable _ . It was  _ overwhelming. _ It was so  _ human _ .

* * *

When Henry had seen people going over the tops of the trenches, he, in his youthful excitement, had determined to go as well. To go and meet some Germans. To see what they were like. He’d grabbed a pack of rations, hoping that perhaps one of the Other Side would swap with him. He’d always wondered what the Germans ate, he’d said. Now was his chance to find out.

And of course Crowley had followed him. He knew his name, now; he had to make sure that the kid didn’t walk straight into a bayonet, or a tank, or whatever other horrible means of mass murder these humans had invented. 

But Crowley also went because he was  _ intrigued _ . Intrigued by humanity’s relentless use of their Free Will. They were breaking  _ all kinds _ of rules, right then; deciding that, just for now, they weren’t going to kill each other. Disobeying orders, even in the middle of all this. It was  _ interesting _ . It was  _ remarkable _ . It was so  _ human _ .

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t see each other that Christmas. Neither even knew the other was there, at least not until many, many years later, when it came up in conversation.

But they were there, together. On two sides on a battlefield. Two sides of a war. Two enemies with far more in common with each other than with those above them ordering them to fight. They were there with the best and the worst of humankind, standing among them. Standing  _ with them _ .

And neither the angel, nor the demon, did anything but  _ witness  _ it. Witness people making their own choices. Witness people acting with love. Witness people declaring an unofficial and rebellious ceasefire. 

On that one surreal day in 1914, they witnessed  _ humanity, _ under the most unbelievable of circumstances, choosing peace on Christmas Day.

* * *


	6. Sleigh Bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had _no idea_ what to write for this...  
> So... I mean...  
> Enjoy this weird, weird... Well.  
> Here you go, anyway.  
> Pahahhaha!

‘Oh, Good Lord, Crowley…’ 

‘What? What? You said that I needed to come dressed for riding! I’m dressed for riding!’’

Aziraphale shook his head and looked his friend up and down. ‘You’re going to cause a scandal…’

Crowley grinned. ‘What? If it’s good enough for Marie Antoinette and the _Parisiennes_ then it’s good enough for the-- Where did you say we were going?’

Aziraphale sighed. ‘I didn’t. So you’ve been in France, then… Look, when we arrive, could you at least miracle up a hoop skirt to go over those-- What are they called?’

Crowley looked down at her legs and shrugged. ‘Breeches?’

‘I suppose they are much more practical for riding...’ Aziraphale conceded.

‘ _Much_. Have you tried riding sidesaddle, angel? Not happening. I can barely stay on a horse as it is.’ They began to walk over to where Aziraphale had tied his horses. ‘And, actually, on that note, _why_ are we _riding?_ You are seriously going to owe me big time for this. I hate riding…’

‘This snow has made the only road into the town impassable,’ Aziraphale replied. ‘And I promised that I’d be in attendance at their little Christmas get together. So horseback it is, I’m afraid...’ He cast a sideways glance at Crowley. ‘And I will most certainly not “ _owe you_ ” for this. You are here because _you_ owe _me_ after that little run in with Thomas Knyvet… Or have you forgotten?’

‘Ugh. Fine.’

They reached the horses.

‘Which one’s mine?’ Crowley asked.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and looked at the horses. 

One was a large, elegant, dappled-grey Andalusian stallion with an immaculately braided black mane and a sprightly dance in his step.

The other was a small, heavy-set Irish cob with huge feathers on herfeet. _Skewbald._ She was almost asleep.

Aziraphale affectionately patted the flank of the cob. ‘This is Matilda,’ he said, smiling. ‘Borrowed her from a friend. You’ll be riding her.’

‘Uh… Why can’t I ride the pretty one?’

‘Tch. Crowley, honestly… Matilda _is_ pretty. Very sweet little thing. And anyway, Balthazar is _my_ horse. He’s rather _lively_... I don’t think you could handle him. You’ve said yourself that you are no rider. Matilda is a solid little thing. You’ll have no problems with her.’

‘ _Little_ being the operative word,’ Crowley complained. ‘Come off it, Aziraphale. She’s barely over 14 hands! I’m a _demon_ ! I can’t ride a _pony_...’

Aziraphale looked pointedly _down_ at Crowely. ‘Yes you can. She’s the perfect size for you.’

‘If anyone from Hell sees me on _that_ my reputation will be _ruined..._ ’

‘Crowley, no one is going to see you. Anyway, Matilda is a lovely little horse.’

Crowley eyed the horse sceptically. ‘Why does she have _bells_ on?’

‘To alert people of our presence,’ the angel said officiously.

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps in order that we don’t accidentally plow down some unwitting pedestrian down in the dark?’

‘All right, all right, no need to get _sharp_.’ Crowley stared at Matilda again and groaned. ‘You can’t ask me to do this, Aziraphale. I can’t ride a bloody _skewbald pony_ covered in _bells_. This outfit is the cutting edge of Parisian fashion. I should be on a, a, a… One of those big, shiny black ones with long hair.’ 

‘Crowley, for goodness sake, we are riding into a rural township through the woods, not going on a fashion tour. Get on the horse.’

With a growl Crowley relented, clambering onto Matilda gracelessly and sitting astride in her scandalously masculine riding ensemble.

Aziraphale swung effortlessly up onto Balthazar. ‘You ready?’

‘Yeah,’ Crowley replied gloomily.

They rode in silence for a few minutes.

Or, rather, they rode without talking, anyway.

‘This is driving me mad,’’ Crowley complained. ‘Can I please get rid of the bloody bells?’

‘No.’

‘This is torture. _Cruel and unusual punishment_. And bears will probably hear us and attack us.’

‘There are no bears, Crowley…’

‘Bandits, then.’

‘You’re a _demon_.’

‘Well, yeah, exactly. Demons don’t _announce their presence_ . Not with _jingle bells_ anyway. I’m taking them off.’

‘No,’ Aziraphale insisted. ‘You’re here helping _me_ out, that means I set the rules. I didn’t complain when you made me paint myself in blue dye that time in Scotland, did I?’

The demon sighed. ‘ _Fine_ . What are the specifics of this _favour_ you need of me, anyway? You still haven’t told me. Aside from slowly killing my will to live via bell.’

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘...I’m sure I’ve told you.’

‘No,’ Crowley replied, ‘you definitely _haven’t_.’

‘Oh. Well. It’s nothing, uh-- I promised some people who live in a, um, a town that I’ve been working on that I would attend their little Winter Ball, that’s all. That’s where we are going.’

Crowley narrowed her eyes. ‘You are calling in the _Gunpowder Plot_ favour for _a ball_ ? That isn’t at all suspicious… And what could you possibly need me to _join_ you for, anyway? You’re a bad liar, Aziraphale.’

‘I’m not-- And anyway, well, that temptation I covered was barely… Catesby didn’t really need any _tempting_ , did he? I barely did any work at all. I was just, you know, _there_ …’

‘Aziraphale…’

‘Ah! Look! I can see some lights, we must be nearly at the estate.’

With that he spurred Balthazar forwards, breaking into an easy canter and leaving Crowley, and the stubbornly plodding Matilda, behind him.

By the time Crowley had caught up, Aziraphale had already dismounted and directing a young boy, who clearly knew more about horses than the angel did, on how he was to stable Balthazar.

‘--and he gets _lonely_ , so please make sure that he is near some other horses, there’s a good lad. ...But not too near, as he does have a terrible tendency to _bite_ … Ah! And here comes, er… Well, if you would please stable this horse, too. Thank you.’

Crowley swung stiffly off of Matilda with a flurry of jingling as she awkwardly caught her riding coat on a row of bells and struggled, noisily, to disentangle herself.

‘Ugh. Bloody _bells_ …’

The boy led the horses away. Once confident that he was out of sight, Crowley waved a hand. Her riding breeches transformed into a ridiculously fashionable dress of dark red that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the court of Louis XVI, but which was somewhat incongruous for a small town in the south of England.

‘Oh, that’s… very… _modern_ ,’ Aziraphale said haltingly.

‘T _hanks_ ,’ she snapped irritably. ‘Now if you would _please_ tell me _what is going on_ …’

Aziraphale fiddled with his jacket. ‘Right, um,’ he began nervously, ‘There is a _small matter_ I should _probably_ raise with you before--’

The angel was cut off by some cheery shouting from the brightly lit building across the way.

‘Mr Fell! You made it! We were beginning to worry you wouldn’t be able to come, what with the snow… Oh! And you brought your wife!’ 

‘I’m sorry, you brought your _what?!’_ Crowley hissed.

‘Ah, yes, about that…’

The friendly woman, braving the snow, trotted daintily across to greet the pair. She smiled warmly at Crowley. ‘Oh, my dear lady! Oh, my, but aren’t you _fashionable._ And so handsome! Oh, Mr Fell, she’s _lovely..._ We have all been _so_ curious to meet you, my dear. Oh! but how impolite of me, I haven’t even introduced myself. Mrs Clarice Beauford. My husband is the heir to the _largest_ estate in the county. This is _our_ _humble abode_ , and _our_ little _event_ , this evening... Oh, but I am rambling, please do excuse me, I have a terrible tendency to talk far too much, and -- Please, please, hurry along inside, you’ll catch your death out here. It’s awfully cold!’

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, who shook her head incredulously and _glared_. She had a glitter in her eyes that worried Aziraphale to no end. He was beginning to seriously question this decision.

‘Look,’ he whispered to her as they walked slowly towards the impressively large house, ‘I’ve been working on turning this town around for _years_. It’s the model of virtue, now. I’m on track for a commendation.’

‘Oh, really? How lovely for you. Why don’t you tell me all about that?’ Crowley said with a bouncing lilt. ‘But _first_ perhaps you might explain _why you told these people that I am your wife?!’_

Aziraphale grimaced. ‘Well, I didn’t. Not precisely. Look-- They kept trying to _marry me off_ . So I told them that I… Well, that I had gotten married in the spring, whilst I was away,’ Aziraphale explained with a pained expression. ‘I thought that would be the end of it. But then they wouldn’t stop insisting that they _meet_ this woman and…’ He shrugged. 

Crowley shook her head. ‘You’re ridiculous, Aziraphale. This is ridiculous. I can’t believe you’ve landed me in this. You _definitely owe me_ for this. You’re going to be doing temptations for the next _decade_ . This is way beyond _The Arrangement_. Bloody hell, angel.’

‘Well.’

‘And anyway,’ Crowley added with a smirk, ‘it’s not very _believable,_ is it? Have you _seen_ me? Like _you_ could land a wife like _this._ ’

‘I’ll have you know that I was considered the most eligible bachelor in the entire _county_ ,’ Aziraphale retorted haughtily, ‘before I married _you_.’

‘Angel, Louis the the Fifteenth, _King of France_ wanted to make me his mistress. I’m out of your _league_.’

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. ‘Did he really? Gosh.’

‘Well,’ Crowley preened, ‘he _tried_ , anyway. So,’ she said, turning to practicalities, ‘what kind of _wife_ am I, then? What have you told them about me?’

‘As little as possible...’ Aziraphale muttered uneasily as they approached the large doors of the manor house. 

This was definitely a terrible decision, he’d decided. Absolutely appalling lapse in judgement. Not that Antonia Crowley was an undesirable wife by any stretch of the imagination - quite to the contrary. Were she human she would, as she’d so rightly pointed out, have been _quite the catch_ . A modern day Cleopatra, if ever there was one. But Crowley _wasn’t_ human, and neither was Aziraphale, and they certainly were _not_ married. Or, at least, not-- Well, anyway, the point was, Aziraphale told himself, that they were an _angel_ and a _demon_ , and this fiasco was just _inviting_ chaos. And the peace and general aura of heavenly morality he’d painstakingly instilled in this once-degenerate township was still balancing on a knifes-edge. It wouldn’t take must to disrupt it and return the people to their dissolute ways. But he couldn’t see any way out of it. 

Then again, perhaps he was over worrying. Crowley was a _professional,_ after all. And _The Arrangement_ had so far been carrying on very smoothly and to their mutual benefit. He had no reason not to trust Crowley. Except, of course, for the fact that she was his hereditary enemy whose job was to undermine everything that Heaven was working towards, and who represented the absolute antithesis of everything that Aziraphale was supposed to believe in.

But other than _that..._

‘Look, just please _behave yourself_ this evening,’ Aziraphale whispered, pausing at the door. ‘Nothing _dramatic_.’

‘ _Behave myself?_ ’

‘We just need to briefly show our faces and then we can leave. Simple. Efficient. No chaos required. All right?’

‘You,’ Crowley said with a charming smile as Aziraphale opened the door for her, ‘are going to regret this.’

‘No, Crowley--’

Aziraphale’s desperate protestations were cut short, as Crowley swanned elegantly into the midst of the ball, amid a flurry of excited whispers. 

_This,_ Aziraphale thought wearily to himself, _was going to be a long evening_.

Crowley was having far too much fun. Aziraphale nervously watched her laughing and talking from across the room. He hadn’t wanted to leave her side, but they’d both been swept in opposite directions by the enthusiastic throng. And he _did_ need to do more work on the local vicar, but letting that man anywhere _near_ Crowley would have been a disaster… 

And, so, they remained disconcertingly separate for much of the evening.

Aziraphale kept an open ear on what Crowley was saying, but people kept talking to him and making him lose the thread of her conversations. He’d catch worrying snippets every now and then, but they only served to increase his irritation and anxiety. Generally they appeared to consist of outlandish stories about meeting the Pope, and dining with Madame du Pompadour, and various incredible adventures in mountain ranges and on tropical islands… 

It was all completely ridiculous. All completely _true_ , of course. But nevertheless, _husband to the dilettante adventuress_ hadn’t been exactly the image Aziraphale had been hoping to cultivate.

‘Ah, now, where _is_ my _darling_ husband?’ Aziraphale suddenly heard Crowley purr shamelessly, the taunting amusement in her voice painfully apparent to him but evidently invisible to everyone else. ‘I do _hate_ to be separated from him for too long.’

This elicited a mass of coos and aaahs from the gaggle of young people surrounding her.

‘Mr Fell! Mr Fell!’ a young woman called Emma called out to him, ‘Your lady wife requires you!’ 

They all fell about giggling, and Crowley flashed a taunting grin at the angel as he made his way over to his _wife_ and the adoring mass of people she had attracted. 

‘ _Antonia_ ,’ he said, as properly as he could manage. ‘Are you quite well?’

‘Oh, _Ezra_ , my _dearest husband_ ,’ Crowley simpered, attaching herself to his arm. ‘You simply _mustn’t_ leave me alone for so long, I do miss you _terribly_ when you are away _…_ ’

‘You seem to be getting along just _fine_.’

‘One puts on a brave face, of course.’

‘Indeed one does…’

‘I was just about to tell these charming young associates of yours _how we met_!’

‘Oh? Were you?’

‘Yes,’ she smiled snakeishly, ‘I was. But now that _you_ are here, why don’t you tell them the story? You do tell it so much better than I do, _mon amour_.’

Aziraphale tried very hard not to grimace. 

‘Ah, yes. Um. Well.’ He stared desperately at Crowley, but she just mooned up at him with an extremely irritating dull-eyed moue. 

She was _baiting_ him.

The damage, he supposed, had already been done. And if it was a challenge she wanted...

Well.

 _Two could play at that game_.

‘We actually first met in a _garden_ ,’ he began, ‘and from that moment on, we were fated to be _star-crossed lovers_ of a truly _Shakespearean mould_...’

A sussuruss of interested and shocked whispers rippled through the crowd amassing around them. Crowley looked mildly taken aback.

‘You see, my family and hers were long time enemies,’ Aziraphale continued, falling easily into a dramatic rhythm. Aziraphale was a natural storyteller, and when butting heads with Crowley he occasionally found himself to be more competitive than sensible. And he’d had a few glasses of whisky. 

‘When we first met, it was not under what one could call the most _salubrious_ of circumstances. Our families had been at each other's throats for generations, and animosities were at a high point, if not, perhaps, their highest. We were ostensibly _blood rivals_ . And yet, one day, nevertheless, there we found ourselves alone in a Garden, _talking_.’

Crowley had dropped the simpering wife act, and was watching the angel with a more recognisably Crowley-esque expression, half annoyed and half amused.

‘We weren’t even supposed to _look at_ one another, let alone enter into a conversation,’ Aziraphale continued. ‘But she’d always harboured quite the _rebellious streak_ , and for my part, well, I suppose a combination of social propriety and just a little personal _intrigue_ drove me to not stop the dialogue in its tracks, as perhaps I should have done.’

‘Over the years, we found ourselves repeatedly thrown in one another’s paths. We were both great travellers, and so frequently found ourselves distanced from our, uh, our families and so…’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose we came to realise that we had quite a lot in common with one another.’

‘And then what?’ a rapt voice called out from the crowd.

‘Well, her utter lack of propriety led to her constantly seeking out my companionship. She’d pop up in the most unexpected and inconvenient of places to brazenly invite me for dinner, or to the theatre, or for long walks in the park--’

‘ _Excuse me_ ,’ Crowley interjected, ‘I think you’ll find that _you_ were the one doing the _inviting._ Making me sound like some desperate--’

‘I’m merely stating the facts, dear girl.’

‘They aren’t _my_ facts.’

‘Would you prefer to tell the story?’

Crowley stuck her tongue in her cheek and glared up at him, eyes sparkling. ‘Yes. I would.’

‘Be my guest,’ Aziraphale replied, dropping the gauntlet. 

‘ _Right_ , well. As _my dear husband_ stated, we were, in fact hereditary enemies. Well, still _are_ , technically. Very old family feud. His side is, of course, just as in the wrong as mine, although you’ll never hear him admit it, but there you have it. Now, our families were not content with merely hating each other from a distance, but were always rather keen to sabotage one another’s _business_ es _._ That’s where we came in. _Saboteurs_.’

A few gasps came from the crowd. Mr Ezra Fell had always been considered a most upstanding citizen, but now here he was with his strange and beautiful wife, recounting his misadventurous past? This really was shaping up to be a Christmas Ball to remember.

‘But we soon realised that our, shall we say, _professional endeavours_ were doing little more than cancelling each other out. And so we established a non-aggression pact. We’d lie to our families, tell them that we were _thwarting_ one another at every turn, when in reality we just, well, did nothing, really.’

Aziraphale cut in; ‘Which, of course, left us with quite a lot of free time.’

‘Which we ended up spending with one another,’ Crowley continued.

‘And then inevitably we grew closer.’

‘As tends to happen.’

‘And then one day I asked her to marry me.’

‘...And I said no, of course. Because I am a highly sought after woman with prospects of her own, who didn’t need to be weighed down by a husband.’

‘But, naturally, she came to sorely regret that decision, soon finding herself _pining_ away, showing up at my door at all hours, complaining that I hadn’t been returning her correspondences...’

‘Well, that was just bad manners, angel.’

‘I was busy! And you were being exceptionally annoying.’

‘I can’t even remember what we had been arguing about, now.’

‘Nor me,’ Aziraphale laughed, and then he cleared his throat, remembering that they were supposed to be telling the story of how they _got married_. ‘Er, and uh, then one day she changed her mind and asked me to marry her, and I said yes.’

‘Can’t tell our families, though,’ Crowley added. ‘As far as they are aware, we still hate each other. Makes reunions a bit dicey, I can tell you.’

‘So, yes. That’s um. _Our story_.’

Silence.

You could almost hear the crickets. _Judging them_.

‘Uh… What an… _unusual_ story,’ their hostess said, breaking the stunned silence. ‘You are clearly a most, um… _unconventional_ couple. I’m not sure how _appropriate_ such a story is, in front of impressionable young girls, but--’’

Aziraphale coughed awkwardly. They had gotten a _little_ carried away.

‘Just joking!’ Crowley cut in with a light laugh and a quick glance at Aziraphale. ‘All made up. Just our little uh, piece of… entertainment for you. The true story is so abysmally boring, you see, so we uh, we thought it might be fun to make up something a little more dramatic.’

‘Yes. Yes. Of course,’ Aziraphale chimed in. ‘Far too dull for a wonderfully lively party such as this.’

‘Exactly. Sorry if we got a little carried away. I think I used to be an actress, or something. Yes. That sounds right. An actress. That explains everything. So I can get a little... All in good fun though, eh?’

The hostess laughed nervously. ‘Oh, yes. Marvellous fun. How, um, _fun_.’

‘So, you aren’t actually star-crossed, then?’ someone asked. ‘Your families don’t _really_ hate each other?’’

‘Of _course not_ ,’ Crowley persisted. ‘Can you _imagine_ ? No. No. Ezra is far too morally upstanding for anything like that. _Obey your mother and father_ , and all that. No, no, I _love_ his parents. Wonderful people. Definitely aren’t arch-nemesises. Nemeses. Er. Look, if that were true, then we would be in danger all of the time, and we definitely wouldn’t be married, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to do this--’

Crowley swung around and kissed Aziraphale full on the lips.

The angel blinked.

‘See? Just regular, boring, normal, married people. Completely dull. Enjoy your party! If you’ll excuse me…’

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

‘...Bit much?’ Crowley said under her breath as she maneuvered them both towards the exit. People hurriedly went back to their festivities, eager to move on from the strange drama the the once respectable Mr Fell had just delivered.

‘Just a tad…’ Aziraphale muttered back.

‘Sorry. I panicked.’

They snuck out of the party as quickly and quietly as they could, and rounded on the stables to collect their horses.

‘Have I ruined your _model town_?’

‘No. Well, maybe. But it was my fault, really. I shouldn’t have sprung this on you. Poor taste, on my part. I’m sorry.’

‘Eh, forget it. And it wasn’t that bad. There are worse husbands than you. Louis the Fifteenth, for one.’

‘Hmm…’

‘And, you know, all might not be lost. I mean, they were all pretty scandalised by us, weren’t they? Quite censorious. You see, to me that suggests that they have taken your moral encouragements seriously. Proves that they are _virtuous_ even independently of you. That’s got to be reassuring, right?’

Aziraphale looked back at the manor house, lit up against the darkness and filled with people laughing and dancing and singing christmas songs. ‘I do hope so. I could really use that commendation.’

Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale’s arm and squeezed. ‘Angel?’’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I take the bells off of the horse now?’

‘No!’


	7. Silent Night

Crowley was humming, again. He hummed quite a lot. And sang a lot too, at least when he thought he was alone or when the music playing was sufficiently loud that he didn’t feel self conscious. He didn’t seem to feel self conscious about humming, though. Most of the time he didn’t even seem to realise he was doing it. Especially when he was dozing half-awake on the sofa, as he was now.

Aziraphale smiled to himself.

‘ _Silent night_ ,’ the angel said, looking up from his work. ‘I knew the man who wrote that, you know.’

‘Hm?’ 

‘ _Silent Night_. You were humming it.’

‘Wass I? Ssorry.’ Crowley’s voice was a touch sleep-slurred, his esses hissing ever so slightly. Ever so endearingly. 

Aziraphale laughed. ‘No, I wasn’t asking you to stop. I was just saying that I knew the man who wrote it. Lovely chap. You would have liked him.’

‘Oh. Yeah?’ 

All Aziraphale could see of Crowley was the top of his head, mop of black hair mussed up and poking out from behind the sofa as he used the arm rest as a pillow.

‘Mm. Joseph Mohr, his name was,’ Aziraphale continued, smiling the smile of fond reminiscence. ‘A priest. Rather unorthodox fellow in many respects. I got on awfully well with him, for the short time I knew him. He reminded me of you ever so much.’

The demon’s face peeked out from above the back of the sofa. 

‘Me? A _priest_? Lay off…’

Aziraphale chuckled again. ‘It’s a compliment to you both, my dear.’

‘The guy who wrote _Silent Night?’_ Crowley said, folding his arms over the top cushion and resting his chin on his hands. 

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale replied, nodding and leaning back in his chair. ‘As a poem, first, but later his friend Franz set it to music for him. Extraordinarily interesting young men. Both impoverished, socially undesirable in all the ways that should have mattered, but very bright. Very hard working. And very good hearted. Joseph studied philosophy, before joining the church. Lived his beliefs, that one.’

‘Huh,’ Crowley said. 

‘Such a shame that he never lived to see _Silent Night_ ’s success. I don’t know that he ever even thought much of it. He was always mostly focused on charity work, helping children and the elderly, and suchlike. Lovely man. Franz too. Their friendship was one of those which does the heart good to see. Both of them really were paragons of humanity, and I don’t say that lightly. And in spite of all the hardships they faced, too. Quite the rebels against station and circumstance, those boys.’

Crowley grinned. ‘You’ve always been soft for the rebels, angel. You want to watch that.’

‘Do you know,’ the angel continued, shifting in his seat and leaning towards the demon, ‘he had it arranged for _guitar_ ? When they first performed it, Christmas Eve, oh, 1817, 1818, something like that, it was just Joseph on his guitar, and the small choir. Of course that seems quite commonplace now, but back then it was quite scandalous! Guitars were for bars and taverns, drunkards and commoners, not the _church_ . Completely socially rebellious, and done so pure-heartedly, it really was _marvellous._ Joseph did love his guitar.’

‘Good instrument, the guitar.’

‘Do you still play?’

‘Eh, not well...’ Crowley admitted. 

Aziraphale knew he was selling himself short - he’d listened to Crowley play on the few handful of occasions he had been in high enough spirits to not feel self-conscious, whether alcohol-induced or simply as a result of the demon’s mercurial mood swings. He wasn’t a technical virtuoso by any means, but he played with such sincerity that Aziraphale, quite the connoisseur of music if he were to say so himself, found himself wondering whether he’d ever heard anything quite so wonderful.

‘You should get it out,’ the angel suggested. ‘Play _Silent Night_ properly, as it was originally intended. I think I have a copy of the original manuscript for it laying around here somewhere, you know.’

Crowley considered this.

‘Yeah, maybe, actually.’

This surprised the angel, who had expected Crowley to vehemently brush the idea off. ‘Oh, really? Would you?’

‘Yeah, why not?’ Crowley answered casually.

Aziraphale beamed. ‘ _Wonderful_! I’ll see if I can find that manuscript,’ he said, standing to his feet and casting a searching eye over the Bookshop. Then his face lit up even more, which was unlikely due to how much he had already been smiling. When the mood struck him, the angel seemed to have an almost inexorable supply of brightness and cheer. It always left Crowley a little bit dazzled. ‘Maybe I can clear off the old piano in the back… We could play together! Put together something of an arrangement, or--’

‘All right, steady on….’

‘I’m a bit rusty, but I’m sure it will come back to me,’ Aziraphale said enthusiastically, flexing his fingers.

‘Yeah, no, angel, I didn’t mean—‘

Aziraphale looked over at him with a tentatively expectant gaze, eyes big and smile hopeful. 

What else could Crowley do?

‘Oh… _All right then_ ,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll go and fetch my guitar...’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joseph Mohr and Franz Gruber, who wrote _Silent Night_ actually have an awesome story!!!!! Google them! I'm a total fanboy for them now!!!!


	8. Choir

The day was bright, if chilly, and Aziraphale found himself in an excellent mood as he made his way through the bustling Oxford crowds. 

Aziraphale adored Oxford. He had in fact considered moving back there on more than one occasion, but he could never quite bring himself to leave his bookshop. And as suited as he was to Oxford, he had become rather accustomed to Soho, and indeed Soho to him, over the two centuries he had lived there. His resolve did always waver, though, when visiting this beautiful city. 

Crowley would never want to live anywhere near Oxford, though. The demon was an in-the-blood Cantabrigian, as vehemently convinced of the superiority of Cambridge as Aziraphale was of Oxford (they had both undergone a brief and virulently competitive spell in the early sixteenth century which saw them, among other things, enrolling at the rival universities in a retrospectively ridiculous attempt to one-up one another. Aziraphale had earned the modern-equivalent of three PhDs in as many years. Crowley had gotten four. That still rankled,despite the fact that Aziraphale _knew_ that several acts of minor bribery had been involved). 

Anyway, with that being the case, Aziraphale had had to eventually admit to himself that he would rather live near to Crowley than near to the Bodleian. And really, as wonderful as that library was, it still paled in comparison to his own collection, with a few notable exceptions. Plus, libraries required one to _share_ access to books. In his little Soho bookshop the angel could hoard his treasures like a mild-mannered dragon, no grubby, grabbing human hands involved. 

Nonetheless, the angel did greatly enjoy his visits to the _city of dreaming spires_. Particularly at Christmas. Few places did Christmases in quite the way that Oxford did. Something about the architecture and the cobbled streets and the glorious weight of English intellectual history lent themselves to this time of year like no other. Every street and every college looked as though they could have leapt straight off of a Christmas card. The only way that the overall aesthetic could be improved was if it would snow, but the weather was proving to be decidedly stubborn on that front. 

Aziraphale’s day, thus far, had been spent entirely contentedly. In fact, there was only one thing that Aziraphale could think of that would improve his present mood.

‘Hey! Hey! Aziraphale! Over here!’

_Speak of the devil…_

Aziraphale turned to see none other than Anthony J. Crowley jogging awkwardly across the street towards him. 

Aziraphale smiled.

‘Crowley? Didn’t think I’d find you here, dear chap. What brings you to Oxford?’

‘Oh, you know,’ Crowley replied dismissively, ‘this and that. How are you? Haven’t seen you since--’

‘Summer of 1952, I believe.’

‘Gosh, has it really been four years?’

‘Four and a half, now,’ Aziraphale said as they started walking. ‘Are you still in that flat in Mayfair?’

‘Officially, yeah. Job’s been a bit all over the place lately, though. That’s why I haven’t been around so much. How’ve you been? I see you’ve finally given in to modern clothing,’ Crowley said, nodding at Aziraphale’s outfit. It had a concerning amount of tartan.

‘And your obsession with it hasn’t altered, I see,’ Aziraphale said, running a critical eye up and down the length of the demon’s small frame. ‘Is that a _motorbike_ jacket? _Please_ don’t tell me you ride a _motorbike_ now, Crowley…’

‘And forsake the Bentley? Blasphemy, angel. Nah, this is _fashion_ , Aziraphale. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it... This,’ Crowley gestured to his outfit, ‘is _all the rage_ in America. Heard of James Dean?’’

‘Didn’t he die, recently?’

‘Yeah, but--’

‘Is that where you’ve been, then? America?’ the angel interrupted.

‘Mm,’ Crowley said dismally. ‘A bit.’

‘Are you back in England for the foreseeable future, now? Or will you be dashing off again any minute?’ 

‘Not sure,’ Crowley muttered gloomily. ‘Downstairs has been a bit more… _demanding_ of my reports, ever since I, erm, well--’

‘Ever since you took a _century-long nap_ , you mean?’

‘Yeah. Ever since that… Well, anyway, the point is that if I don’t send regular reports back now, they are going to start thinking I’ve gotten myself stuck somewhere again.’

‘That is what happens, my dear boy, when you tell your superiors that you allowed The Enemy to inadvertently trap you in a _basement_ for eighty years…’

‘What? What was I supposed to say, that I had been _asleep_ ? That would have gone down _brilliantly_.’

‘You didn’t have to drag me into it…’ the angel muttered.

‘Well, whatever, too late now, isn’t it? The point is that if I don’t get my reports in regularly I’ll have Hastur and Ligur creeping up behind me asking if I need any help getting out of troublesome angel traps...’

Aziraphale shot him a twisted smile and flashed his eyes wickedly. ‘Mm, wouldn’t want that. Quite the social dampener.’

Crowley cleared his throat. ‘But it’s all right. I think I’ve got it figured out. I’m staggering them. My reports, I mean. Pacing myself. Hell has an abysmal grasp of human timescales, and a pretty shaky concept of geography, so I can probably eke out this last trip’s work for the next decade or so. Intersperse my reports from America and Russia or _wherever_ , with current reports from where I _actually_ am. Make it look like I’m being _globally proactive_ whilst actually staying at home in London. Or wherever.’

‘That’s rather clever of you.’

‘I thought so.’

‘Is that why you are in Oxford? Here to cause some trouble, are you?’

‘Nah-- Well, not that I’ll pass up the opportunity if it presents itself. Naturally.’

‘Naturally.’

‘But no, I was, uh, I was here looking for you, actually,’ Crowley said as nonchalantly as he could.

‘For me?’ Aziraphale chirped. ‘Whatever for? Not that it isn’t perfectly wonderful to see you, dear boy. In fact I was just this moment thinking about you when up you popped. Quite serendipitous!’

‘Oh? Were you?’ Crowley blinked. ‘Um. But uh, yeah, no. No particular reason, really. Just… Well, you know how it is. Didn’t have anything much going on, and I hadn’t seen you in a while and--’

‘And you _missed me_ ,’ the angel teased.

‘All right, all right,’ Crowley snapped without much bite. ‘Don’t go on about it…’

Aziraphale hooked his arm through Crowley’s. ‘Well, it is a marvellous surprise. I was actually on my way to a choral performance, if you’d care to join me?’

Crowley thought about it. ‘Where is it?’

‘Worcester College.’

‘Isn’t that the one you studied at? Back in the… I want to say fifteenth century?’

‘Sixteenth,’ Aziraphale corrected. ‘And yes, it is my old _alma mater_ , although it was called Gloucester College back then. I did spend some time at Corpus Christi too, lovely little college…’ The angel’s face took on a dreamy aspect for a second before he blinked himself back to the present. ‘Anyway, the grounds of Worcester College are lovely. Beautiful gardens. Have you been?’

Crowley shook his head.

‘The concert doesn’t begin for an hour or so, if you fancied a stroll?’

‘I’m game.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes, I mean. Sounds good.’

Crowley and Aziraphale passed a very pleasant hour ambling around the grounds of the college, chatting, and laughing, and enjoying each other’s company as they always did. 

Coming to the end of their long circuit, Aziraphale led Crowley back through the orchard and down the path back to the main quad with ten minutes to spare before the beginning of the carol concert.

As they approached the concert location, however, Crowley stopped in his tracks.

‘-- although it _does_ look simply _magical_ in the snow, it really is such a shame that we aren’t due any this year... Crowley? Is there a problem?’

‘Uh… Yeah...’ the demon said querulously. 

‘What?’

Crowley pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows, inclining his head towards the chapel door that Aziraphale was considerately holding open. Or inconsiderately, as the case was.

Aziraphale looked blankly back and forth between the demon and the door a few times before the penny finally dropped.

‘Oh!’

‘Yeah…’

‘Oh, gosh. Oh. Oh, I am so sorry, my dear boy. I didn’t think. I completely forgot. Oh. Oh dear…’ he babbled anxiously.

‘Ah… Don’t worry about it,’ Crowley said awkwardly. ‘It’s not-- You go ahead. You’ve been looking forward to it. And I’m, you know, not-- Choirs aren’t really my _scene_ , you know. I’ll just…’ He bobbed his head and shrugged. ‘Go on. I’ll be fine. I’ve got places I can go. Forget it, angel. I’ll… See you around.’

‘Absolutely not!’ Aziraphale snapped. ‘It’s _Christmas eve_ , Crowley.’

‘So?’

‘So-- Well--’ The angel pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the door frame. Then his eyes lit up in a way that both intrigued and worried Crowley in equal measure. 

‘Wait here,’ the angel said, before disappearing into the college church.

Crowley spread his hands and shook his head. ‘Right. I’ll just… Right. Wait here then, I suppose. Yay…’ 

He scowled and leaned against the wall, hoping to look cool and nonchalant like Lee van Cleef or something, but forgetting that the wall bounded the chapel. With a yelp Crowley glared at the stonework before skulking over to sit gloomily on the steps in front of the quad. Some humans gave him a strange look, so he smiled charmingly and said, ‘Spider. Bit me on the shoulder. Bloody things, eh?’ and they smiled nervously and huddled off together somewhere else.

Crowley was just about to light a cigarette when a loud and urgent bell started ringing from within the chapel, followed by what every bad journalist would have termed _a lively commotion._ Crowley sprung to his feet just in time to move out of the way of a bustle of mildly panicked people all hurrying down the steps and onto the path surrounding the main quad.

‘CALM PLEASE,’ a burly, red-faced man hollered. ‘PLEASE CALMLY MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE QUAAAAD! But not on the grass,’ he added. ‘It’s expensive.’

Crowley craned his neck, looking for Aziraphale. He spotted him just as smoke began to billow out from the open doors of the chapel.

‘What did you _do_?’ the demon hissed, circling around behind the angel and trying to keep the levels of awed admiration in his voice to a minimum.

‘What? Me?’ Aziraphale was a perfect model of innocence. ‘I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Crowley.’

‘What’s going on? What’s with the bell and the panicking people and the _smoke?_ _Angel_?’

Aziraphale spread his hands. ‘Nothing to worry about. Simply a… small fire. That’s all.’

Crowley raised his eyebrows and laughed. ‘A fire? What the-- A _fire_? Why?’

‘Candle fell over, I believe. Onto a pile of old hymn books. Dry paper and candles, very bad mix. Very unsafe. They really ought to have known better. Real fire hazard. Accident just _waiting_ to happen.’ 

Crowley shook his head. ‘But why--’

He was cut off by a priest flowing out of the chapel and announcing to the flustered crowd that the _small fire_ was now out, and that they were just going to allow the smoke to clear and then everyone could return back inside and the concert could commence as planned, if slightly later than scheduled.

Then the heavy doors slammed shut behind him.

With the keys, so it transpired, still inside.

Aziraphale stared up at the sky with his hands behind his back, as though he weren’t paying any attention to proceedings whatsoever.

Crowley was paying a _great deal of attention_.

The choir were whining about how their performance had been ruined. The concert-goers were complaining loudly and enquiring of the much-beleaguered priest whether they would be able to get their ticket money back (‘ _But the tickets were purchased on a donation basis!’_ the priest tried to explain, _‘We’ve already used the money to buy Christmas gifts for the orphans!’_ ). 

And suddenly Aziraphale had materialised in the midst of the throng.

‘I don’t see why the concert must be cancelled,’ he said, voice like silk. Crowley could suddenly see _exactly_ how the angel was always so successful when covering temptations for him... ‘A fire didn’t dissuade Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego now, did it? And Christ himself didn’t _give up_ in the face of adversity, did he? Hm?’’

‘You’re crazy!’ a voice replied from the crowd. ‘What’re we supposed to do? Have the concert in the bally _gardens_?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Aziraphale said in a calm and deliciously persuasive voice. ‘Worcester College is in possession of arguably the best gardens in Oxford, and the weather is dry, if a little chilly. What better way to celebrate Yuletide than carols under the open stars?’’

A susurrus of approval rippled through the mass of people. 

And suddenly, as though it had been the plan all along, the choir and the priest and the musicians and the crowd were marching single file through the small passageway - the same passageway which inspired Lewis Carroll’s _rabbit hole_ to Wonderland, which Crowley felt was oddly appropriate - and around to the sprawling gardens bounding the Worcester College lake.

Aziraphale and Crowley followed up the rear.

‘Angel, I have to say, I’m impressed,’ Crowley whispered as they passed through the small gated tunnel. ‘Your ability to always get precisely what you want is astounding.’

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ Aziraphale replied.

‘Yeah. Sure you don’t.’

‘I merely… advised. It would have been a shame for all of the choir’s preparations to go to waste.’

‘Mmm,’ Crowley hummed. ‘And the fire? The doors slamming themselves shut like that and locking everyone outside? Good thing you were around to help them all out, I suppose?’

‘One does what one can.’

‘Bit of bad luck though, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, awfully bad luck.’

‘Good luck for me, though.’

‘Oh, well. I--’

‘And for _you_ , too. Assuming, of course, that you were in fact quite _keen_ for me to watch the concert with you?’

‘Well, I mean--’

‘Almost as though you’ve _missed me_ , angel,’ Crowley taunted.

Aziraphale glanced at the demon, giving him a flickering up-and-down once-over. ‘I suppose I _might_ have missed you. A tiny amount.’

‘Mm,’ Crowley nodded. ‘Just a _tiny_ amount.’

‘Miniscule. Barely even enough to be worth mentioning.’

‘Enough to set fire to a church for me, though?’

Aziraphale tried to sigh but it came out more like a laugh. ‘Do be quiet. Listen, the choir is beginning.’

‘Yeah, all right, angel,’ Crowley grinned.

 _'Shhh!_ ’

As the choir sang _My Song Is Love Unknown_ , snow began to fall.

Aziraphale gasped, staring entranced up at the sky before turning his starry-eyed gaze onto the demon. Crowley shook his head at the millennia-old angel who was still awed and entranced by frozen water falling from the sky.

‘I didn’t think it was supposed to snow until January,’ Aziraphale whispered, leaning in close.

‘Well, weather can be a bit unpredictable, can’t it?’ Crowley replied, keeping his eyes firmly on the choir.

Aziraphale gazed down at the demon, white snowflakes settling on his dark hair, and he smiled. 

‘Merry Christmas, my dear,’ he murmured, taking Crowley’s arm.

‘Yeah, Merry Christmas, angel.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may be _somewhat_ biased towards Worcester College... BUT... if you do find yourself in Oxford, you really ought to visit it. It has _grass you can walk on..._ :O


	9. Chestnuts

A.,

In Turin in December.  
You busy?

C

* * *

_Dear C.,_

_What on earth are you doing in Turin, dear boy? No, on second thoughts, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.  
_ _Isn’t it awfully cold there this time of year?  
_ _I am in Catania for the winter (much more clement!!), but I suppose I could make the trip North, provided I had sufficient motivation._

 _Yours,  
_ _A._

* * *

A.,

Duke of Savoy’s chef is _excellent._

C.

* * *

_Dear C.,_

_How excellent?_

_Yours,  
A._

_P.S. What are you doing with the Duke of Savoy?_

* * *

A.,

D. of S. imported new ingredient: “ _Sugar_ ”. Like honey, but not. It’s v. sweet, you’ll love it. The chef does some indecent things with it involving chestnuts. 

C.

P.S. As I said; excellent chef. 

* * *

_Dear C.,_

_I may be convinced…_

_Yours,_ _  
_ _A._

* * *

A.,

Staying near Rivoli Castle.  
If you’re coming via Sicily, bring qubbayta??

C.

* * *

_Dear C.,_

_My dear, you are getting quite the sweet tooth… I will see what I can find._ _  
_ _Is it not terribly cold in Piedmont, though? Why don’t you come to me in Sicily, instead? The climate is much more amenable here, and I know how you feel the cold._

 _Yours,_ _  
_ _A._

* * *

A.,

Can’t. Working. Sorry.

C.

* * *

_Dear C.,_

_Oh, that is a shame. I’ve found the most charming little taverna which sells the best red wine I have had since that Falernian in Baiae. All of that volcanic soil, I’d imagine. Grows the most exceptional grapes. They serve the most wonderfully rustic food, too. Simple, yet wanting for nothing. Exactly the sort you prefer.  
_ _The villa I’m staying at is only a short walk from the beach. Lovely and quiet, practically have the place to myself.  
_ _But I’m sure Turin will be lovely too, if you really can’t get away…_

 _Yours,  
_ _A._

* * *

A.,

Sounds perfect... But I really can’t get away.

C.

* * *

_Dear C.,_

_I understand. You are dedicated to your work. It’s admirable.  
_ _Although, if I am in Turin I will be obligated to thwart whatever schemes you are working on, if only to justify my presence there in my reports.  
_ _Just a heads up, my dear._

 _Yours,  
_ _A._

* * *

A.,

...Bastard.

C.

* * *

_Dear C.,_

_Should I read that curt missive to mean I can expect you in Sicily before Christmas? Let me know._

_Yours, as always,  
_ _A._

_P.S. Please do try to bring some of those sugared chestnuts with you. They sound scrumptious._

* * *

A.,

You are unbelievably irritating, you do know that?

C.

P.S. I will.


	10. Gold and Silver

‘No. No, I don’t like it,’ Crowley said, casting a critical eye over the exterior of the bookshop.

‘What do you mean you don’t like it? That’s rather rude of you, Crowley.’

‘What, you’d rather I’d lie?’

‘Well-- No, obviously not. But-- Well what’s wrong with them? I thought the lights were rather fetching. _Festive._ ’

‘It’s not the lights themselves, it’s the colour… Look, how about this?’ Crowley waved a hand and the Christmas lights garlanding the front of Aziraphale’s bookshop flickered from silver to gold.

‘See, now that’s much better,’ the demon proclaimed.

‘Gold? Really, my dear?’

‘What’s wrong with gold? Gold’s good. _Warmer,_ for one thing. And more Christmassy. Isn’t gold one of the gifts the kings or wizards or star-hunters or whatever they were gave to the baby Jesus in the Nativity story? _Gold, Frankincense_ , and _Myrrh_? Which, come to mention it, is frankly ridiculous. Who gives _those_ to a baby? The gold, yeah, all right, I can sort of see that, investment for the future, pay for his university tuition or something, but Frankincense and Myrrh? Who the hell gives a _baby_ Frankincense and Myrrh?’

‘I believe they are symbolic. _Kingship, godhood, and mortality,_ or something like that…’ Aziraphale murmured distractedly, still frowning at the newly gilded lights. ‘You know, I really think I prefer the silver, Crowley. Suits the colour scheme of the shop more, don’t you think?’

Aziraphale nodded his head at the lights and they changed back to silver.

Crowley made an irritated noise with his tongue and shook his head. ‘No, angel, that’s-- Silver’s too cold. Too, too, too-- Silver’s like the stars, right? Distant, and, I mean, yeah, I love the stars as much as the next person, but they aren’t exactly _welcoming_ , are they? And anyway, the shop definitely has a gold-leaning aesthetic, not silver.’

He transformed the lights back to gold.

‘Crowely, it’s _my_ shop.’

_Silver lights._

‘Well, but-- Well I have to look at it, don’t I? You barely go outside, _I’m_ the one who has to see it every time I come over.’

_Gold lights._

‘You leave the shop even less than _I do_ , recently, Crowley. And anyway, I can see them through the window from my desk.’

_Silver lights._

‘Look, who is the fashionable one out of the two of us? Hm? Who knows _aesthetics_? I took an _interior design_ course, angel.’

_Gold lights._

‘Why are you being so _insistent_?’

 _Silver lights. Gold lights. Silver lights_.

‘Why are you being so _stubborn_?’

_Gold lights. Silver lights. Gold--_

The lights sparked dramatically and made an interesting fizzing sound in protest of being so disabused by the arguing occult and/or ethereal entities.

Aziraphale and Crowley stopped their bickering, and stared up at the shop.

‘Oh. Oh, well that actually looks pretty good,’ Crowley said.

‘Hmm,’ the angel replied. ‘Silver and gold, alternating. Yes, that really is rather pleasant, isn’t it?’

‘Really pretty.’

‘See, my dear boy,’ Aziraphale said smugly, as though this had been his idea rather than a mistake of over-miracling, ‘teamwork always pays off.’

‘I’m not sure that was teamwork, angel…’

‘Well, in any case, that’s that sorted. Silver and gold lights it is. Now. Cup of cocoa?’

‘Wouldn’t say no,’ Crowley grinned.

‘And afterwards you can help me decide which to place on the roof: the illuminated Father Christmas model or the neon Nativity Scene.’

Freezing on the spot for just a second before narrowing his eyes, the demon replied, ‘...You’re kidding?’

Aziraphale grinned mischievously, holding the door for his demon. ‘Of course, dear boy.’

‘Oh, thank G-- someone.’ Crowley laughed, relieved. ‘I can’t believe you actually had me there, for a second.’

‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ Aziraphale chastised. ‘Surely you know me better than that by now, my dear?’

‘Well, it did make me wonder, I have to say.’

Aziraphale headed towards the kitchenette in the backroom whilst Crowley flopped down on the sofa.

‘Because _obviously_ I’ll be going with the Nativity scene,’ the angel added over his shoulder with a wicked smirk.

‘No, wait, what?! _Angel...!'_


	11. Pine

Crowley drummed his fingers on the arm of his sofa and _glared._

‘You think you’re _so clever_ , don’t you?’ he hissed. ‘You call that a _threat_?’

The only reply he received was silence.

‘I won’t hesitate. I can assure you. I am _quite capable_ of _taking you out_ if necessary. Ask your _friends_. Ask them what happened to _their friends_. I am _the Demon Crowley_. Don’t underestimate me. Are you listening? _Do you hear me_?’

In the absolute silence, you could hear a needle drop…

Crowley snarled and leapt for his phone, dialling furiously.

‘ _Hallo?_ ’

‘Aziraphale? It’s me.’

_Oh, hello Crowley, my dear. To what do I owe the--’_

‘I need help,’ the demon cut in.

‘ _Oh? With what?_ ’

Crowley shot a menacing look towards the perpetrator brazenly standing over the scene of the crime in the corner of his living room.

‘My _Christmas tree_ keeps _shedding its pine needles_.’

‘... _Excuse me?_ ’

‘My Christmas tree!’ the demon yipped irritably. ‘I thought I’d, you know, I haven’t ever had one before and-- It’s dropping bloody needles _everywhere_. I’ve tried threatening it, I’ve tried pleading with it, I tried spraying it with hairspray, I even gave it some _beer_ , but the damned thing is still turning my living room floor into a damned _pincushion_. One went in my foot just now. It _broke the skin_ , angel…’

No sound came from the telephone’s speaker, other than a faintly muffled noise which sounded irritatingly like stifled laughter.

‘Aziraphale?’

The angel cleared his throat.‘ _Ah. I, uh, I see your predicament, my dear.’_

‘Well?’ Crowley snapped.

‘ _Well what?_ ’

‘You’ve had Christmas trees before, haven’t you? What do you do to keep them in line?’

 _‘Nothing. I’ve never really had a problem with shedding, not before January, anyway. And then it’s usually a good reminder that I really ought to take the thing down_.’

‘You’ve _never_ had this problem?’

_‘Well, not personally…’_

Crowley made a strangled sound.

‘ _But I’ve heard that it is a very common problem. Lots of people experience this, every now and again, even experienced horticulturalists. Nothing to be ashamed of, my dear.’_

‘ _You’ve_ never had a problem with-- ngk.’

_‘Well, yes, but--’_

‘Is it me? Am I somehow lacking? Am I not intimidating enough? Am I not… _scary_?’

Aziraphale tutted sympathetically. _‘My dear boy, of course you are. You are extremely scary. Absolutely intimidating, when you want to be.’_

‘Don’t _patronise_ me, Aziraphale.’ Crowley put his hand over his eyes. ‘I’ve lost my touch. I’m too out of practice. Ever since that blasted _Banana Plant_ died on me I’ve… I’ve lost my _mojo_ , Aziraphale…’ He glanced at the plants dotted all around his flat and lowered his voice. ‘And they _know_ , angel. I _know they do_ …’

‘ _Who?’_

 _‘_ The _plants!_ My plants! The _Christmas tree!_ They are _conspiring_ , angel…’

‘ _Crowley, I really think that you are over-reacting--_ ’

‘I’m not. You don’t know plants like I do, angel. You don’t know how they _think_ …’

‘ _’m not entirely certain that plants have the capacity to--_ ’

‘That’s it!’

_What?’_

‘I’ve figured it out! I know what I have to do, now. Thanks for your help, Aziraphale. _Ciao!’_

‘ _What--’_

Crowley hung up the phone.

And Crowley stood up, wearing a serpentine grin.

And Crowley was suddenly holding a _saw_.

🌲

Crowley showed up at the Bookshop the next day, bearing gifts. Aziraphale accepted them with a cheery grin. 

_‘_ Do you want me to wait until Christmas?’ the impatient angel asked, ‘or can I open them now?

Crowley shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Oh!’ Aziraphale chirped happily as he opened the parcel. ‘A set of pinewood coasters, how lovely! And potpourri? Is that pine scented, too?’

‘Mmhm,’ Crowley nodded. ‘ _Made them myself…_ ’


	12. Caroling

_all out of darkness, we have light,_ __  
_which made the angels sing this night._  
\- Sussex Carol

Tokyo, it is said, never stops and never sleeps. Not even on Christmas Day.

Crowley was in Tokyo.

Crowley was not sleeping.

Crowley was _wandering_.

Christmas in Japan had a decidedly different feel to Christmas in other cities. It felt entirely different, for example, to Christmas in London, which was what Crowley was presently avoiding in particular. He was in a dark mood, this year. He did not want to deal with Christmas markets, or obnoxiously bright lights, endless Nativity scenes, or the relentless, torturous, soul-destroying Christmas songs in every shop, and on every radio channel, and piped ceaselessly straight out into the streets. Not to mention the bloody _carolers_ . When had _that_ become fashionable again? 

No. Crowley was in _no_ mood to deal with an English Christmas. He was in no mood to deal with _anything_ , really. He could feel himself slipping, again. Last time he’d felt like this he’d slept for most of a century. But that wasn’t an option, now. He’d get a bit of an early wakeup call, if he tried...

And so, Crowley was instead wandering, aimless, around the centre of Asakusa, drinking tropical-fruit-salad flavoured soy milk out of a little yellow carton, and idly wondering whether or not he wanted to go and get a strawberry cake in the little fast food joint underneath the train station. 

What Crowley was emphatically _not_ doing was thinking about the fact that the ticking time-bomb that was _the Antichrist_ had now been on Earth for a little over a year, and that Crowley therefore had just under ten-or-so years before everything was, most probably, going to go _boom_.

He was also, with an equal measure of determination, not thinking about the angel Aziraphale.

What he was not thinking about the angel Aziraphale was that, once Things Kicked Off, Crowley probably wouldn’t be able to see him anymore. That on top of having to watch the world he loved so much _burn_ , Crowley would probably have to watch it burn _alone_. That whether Hell won or Heaven won, _he_ was going to _lose_. He was going to lose _his best friend_. He was going to lose his _world_. Lose his _freedom_ …

And even if they succeeded in their plan to screw up Satan’s son enough that Hell would have to bake a new one from scratch, that would only buy them another ten or eleven years. How many times can you ruin a perfectly good Antichrist before they started getting suspicious? _Not enough times_ , Crowley had thought dejectedly. A _thousand_ times wouldn’t be enough…

Crowley wasn’t thinking about any of this.

No, Crowley was doggedly and determinedly thinking about the strawberry cake from the diner under the railway tracks.

Christmas made it worse. Everyone was always so _happy_ at Christmas. Or, well, not _everyone_ , obviously, but there was this general aura of _hopefulness_ peppered all over the holiday that only reminded Crowley of how _hopeless_ his situation was. 

He missed Aziraphale. And that was _Bad_. That was _Dangerous_. It hadn’t been, before, when missing Aziraphale just meant picking up the phone, or dropping by the shop, or sniffing out the angel’s presence and lurking up behind him and saying _Hi, Angel, Fancy Lunch?_ Missing Aziraphale _now_ meant getting a Sneak Preview of _Eternity_ , and Eternity had a long run time. 

Crowley liked to be on his own. But he hated to be _alone_. There was a difference. He was feeling extraordinarily alone, right then, and deliberately so. What he was trying to do was get used to it. Loneliness. Missing the angel. He was testing it out. _Practicing_. 

He wasn’t doing a very good job of it. 

Because despite the suffocating relentlessness with which these anxieties plagued his thoughts, he couldn’t ever quite _believe_ them. He _knew_ that the situation was hopeless, of course - he wasn’t stupid, after all - but he didn’t _believe_ it. He couldn’t _bring himself_ to believe it. Not deep down. Not _really_... The universe couldn’t be so cruel. Could it? _Could it?_

It was too much to think about. Better to just ignore it, for a while. Better to give yourself some space. Better to get acclimatised to the yearning ache, vaccinate yourself against it so that when it hit in earnest, _if_ it hit in earnest, it wouldn't rip you to pieces. Better to just bugger off to Japan and go to theatres and arcades and bustling metropolises and let all of the bright lights distract you from the dark fears that kept on gnawing away relentlessly at your soul. 

Crowley wandered into the diner beneath the train tracks and ordered the cake that he didn’t want in his broken Japanese. Then he slunk into a seat next to the fogged-up windows and stared with some dedication at absolutely nothing. The place was almost empty, and Crowley paid no notice to the few other patrons that came and went, other than to shiver at the bitter draught that whispered through the warmth whenever the door was opened.

‘Are you going to eat that,’ a slightly prissy, very English, and unbelievably _welcome_ voice said from out of nowhere, ‘or just glare at it?’

Crowley jerked up his head to find himself staring at the angel, who slid smoothly into the seat opposite.

‘ _Aziraphale?’_ the demon gaped. ‘But-- What-- You’re-- Why aren’t you-- Why are you-- _You’re supposed to be in London_?’

Aziraphale carefully folded his winter jacket and placed it neatly on the seat beside him. ‘Am I? I don’t recall any rule saying that I had to be in London.’

‘Why are you here? What are-- And how did you _find_ me?’

‘Were you hiding?’

‘N-no, but--’

‘Well, then.’

‘Aziraphale…’

The angel pursed his lips as though he were handling a fractious toddler refusing to eat his broccoli. 

‘Don’t give me that look,’ Crowley snapped, stabbing at his cake and shoving a forkful of it into his mouth. ‘Mmnm nrt uh rnn oo yo-ed uh wiyou warwih ir ecshalayshun, oo uh-uv-uh- _itsh_ \--’ He swallowed the cake. ‘-- _y_ _ou_ are. So don’t play _coy_ with _me_.’

Aziraphale raised a solitary eyebrow. ‘ _Merry Christmas_ to you, too.’

Crowley glared at the angel, who folded his hands patiently on the table, serene as anything. 

‘We just-- we… We can’t keep _doing this_ ,’ Crowley finally said in a low voice. ‘Acting as though… It’s…. Things are...’ The demon sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘The Antichrist is going to grow up really bloody fast, and then everything, all this, all of-- And maybe we’ll be able to… Maybe our plan will work, but _then what_? We’ve only got _ten years_ , Aziraphale. And then, if we’re lucky, another eleven after that. _And then what_?’

‘We’ll think of something,’ Aziraphale replied calmly. How was he so _calm?_ It was _infuriating_.

Crowley spread his hands and gesticulated desperately. ‘How can you say that!’

‘The _right thing_ will happen, Crowley. You forget, it’s _planned_ , it’s--’

 _‘_ If you bloody say _It’s Ineffable_ I swear to-- to _someone_ that I will jump over this table and throttle you myself.’

Aziraphale shrugged. ‘Well, it is.’

‘But, but, but… But what if the plan is-- isn’t--’ the demon licked his lips nervously. ‘Angel, it might not-- I mean, _we_ might not…’ Crowley trailed off. His glasses slid to the end of his nose, and the expression in his eyes said everything he couldn’t find the words for.

Aziraphale studied the demon’s face for a few moments. ‘Well, all the more reason not to go _AWOL_ and refuse to take my calls for four months, hm?’ He smiled kindly as he said it, which somehow made the words sting more.

Crowley growled and pushed his glasses back up. ‘It’s not as simple as that.'

‘And it’s not as _complicated_ as you are making it either, my dear. Now, come on.’ The angel pushed himself up from the table and unfolded his coat. ‘I’ve heard that the _karaoke_ bars are rather different in Japan than in London. Private booths, food and drinks service, multi-storey buildings with _excellent_ views… I read about them in one of those magazines you always leave lying around the bookshop. Always thought they sounded rather _fun_. And now, here we are, perfect opportunity. Karaoke at Christmas. Almost like caroling.’

Crowley stared at the angel, trying to make sense of the sharp left turn this conversation had just taken, and failing.

‘Well, come on, dear boy. Don’t just sit there gawking like a fish. I believe I just requested that you _take me out_. It is Christmas, after all.’

The angel was standing in front of him now, elbow extended, waiting for the demon to take it. 

‘Er...’ Crowley stood up and, frowning dubiously at Aziraphale, snaked his arm through the crook of the angel’s elbow. ‘Right. Well. There’s a, er, quite a new place, just the other side of the theatre district. We can go there. If you like. I suppose.’’

‘Perfect,’ Aziraphale beamed, his smile doing a _much_ better job of chasing out the darkness haunting the demon’s thoughts than bright lights and flashy distractions had been able to. Even though, in many ways, that smile was the _catalyst_ for those very same dark thoughts. Psychology could be a bit of a bugger.

‘Erm, angel…’ Crowley said as they left the warmth of the diner and stepped out into the brisk evening air.

‘Yes?’

‘Karaoke is _not_ the same as caroling.’

‘If you say so, my dear.’

‘So no _Christmas songs._ Not even, you know, like, _non-carol-ish_ ones. In fact, I am putting a veto on the use of the word _Christmas_ this evening. All right?’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘Bloody _hate_ caroling.’

‘I know you do.’

‘ _S_ _o annoying_ . Knocking on people’s doors, singing the _worst_ songs and always out of key, some sniveling kid always being pushed to the front, dragged along against their will by an overbearing grandmother, and yet _I’m_ the rude one if I tell them to go away…’

It wasn’t a conventional Christmas, but then, Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t particularly conventional creatures. And, after all, if they really did only have ten more Christmases left before _whatever_ was to come… Well. _Unorthodox_ or _traditional_ both sort of stopped seeming so important. None of that really seemed to matter.

The important thing, Crowley realised as he choked on a terribly mixed cocktail by laughing too hard at Aziraphale enthusiastically singing _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , the thing that _really mattered_ was that they _lived, now._ That the _world lived, no_. That there _were still_ Christmases to celebrate. And New Years, and Cinco de Mayos, and St Patrick’s Days, and April Fool’s Days, and Groundhog Days, and _Tuesdays_ and _Wednesdays_ and _Sundays_ and _all of the days,_ all of the precious, perfect, passing days. All of the days that were left. They still had time to figure something out. They still had _time._

Aziraphale sat back down and thrust the microphone into Crowley’s hand, then leaned over the state-of-the-art digital karaoke machine and keyed in a song with a worrying glitter in his eyes. Crowley groaned as _I Say A Little Prayer_ flashed up on the small screen in an obnoxiously garish font. Trust the angel to pick something like _that_ . Crowley sang it anyway, of course. _No one_ could say no to _Aretha_. And Crowley, he had realised some time since, was never terribly inclined to say no to _Aziraphale._

Glancing across at the angel, laughing and joining in with the chorus as Crowley hammed up his performance to the nth degree, the demon realised something else. He realised that, in spite of everything, _because_ of everything, the most important thing was that he and Aziraphale were _together_. Come what may, they had that at least. They had _now_ , at least. They had _each other_. That’s what mattered. 

And, for now, that was enough to drive away the darkness. 

That was enough to let Crowley’s spirit _sing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to live in Asakusa. I spent an extremely enjoyable Christmas just like this - possibly one of my best Christmases ever, actually. 10/10 Would Recommend. I sang Kate Bush and Green Day. And my own Best Friend sang Queen. Was great fun.


	13. Wrapping Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PEN AND ZOPH ARE BACK!  
> (and therefore this is set in Show!Canon! Although I'm really stuck in book!characterisation mode, so if the book is bleeding through a bit... *shrugs* Well, read of it as you will! Pahahah.)

‘I don’t _want_ to wrap anything.’ 

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘I’ll be how I _like_!’

‘You don’t _like_ being a bratty little baby, do you, Zo? I mean, you are like, _super good_ at it, but it doesn’t seem very _fun._..’

‘Bugger off.’

The angel Zophiel, one half of the newly appointed Earth Liaison team in Heaven, replacements for the now-renegade _Aziraphale_ , wrapped their arms around their knees and started crying noisily.

‘Zophiel… I know you’re fake crying. Your real crying is more like--’ Penemue made a hiccoughing, gasping, spluttering noise. ‘And your _fake_ crying is more like--’ Penemue made a sound like the mutant hybrid child of a donkey and a piglet being forcibly dragged somewhere it didn’t want to go, possibly with squeaky-toys attached to its feet. ‘And right no you are _definitely_ fake crying. Or _at least_ hamming it up. Dunno who _for_. I’m the only one here, Zo. Save your whining for, like, Michael, or something.’

‘I’m _noooot whiiiiiiiiiining_ ’, Zophiel whined. They added a pathetic little sniff onto the end for dramatic effect.

‘Dude, it’s not that big of a deal.’

‘It _is_ that big of a deal, Penemue. It’s not _fair_! It’s our first year in this _stupid_ job that I don’t even _want_ , and, like, the only big perk was that we get to _go down there_ sometimes, and like, I was, like, you know--’ each word was now being punctuated by a gasping little sob, ‘--like, really, really, really _looking forward to iiiiiiit!’_

Penemue reached over and patted their friend on the shoulder.

‘I know, babe. But it’s just one Christmas. Maybe we can convince them to let us spend it on earth next year, yeah?’’

Zophiel sniffed sadly. ‘But I was excited for _this year_. I had it all planned. We were gonna go see _them_ …’

‘Well, we can go and see them next year.’

‘They might already be _married_ by then!’

‘I don’t think they have any plans to get married…’

‘Yeah, well that’s why I wanted to go _see them_! I mean, aside from, you know, like, wanting to because _I love them_. I wanted to, like, you know, like, _you know_. Give ‘em a _nudge_.’

‘Yeah, Zo, I dunno if that’s a good idea... We talked about this. If we see Aziraphale and Crowley A) we have to do it very, very carefully so that Heaven doesn’t cotton on, and B) we have to _be cool_ . All right? Playing Cupid isn’t playing it cool. That’s, like, the opposite of cool. We’re _cool_ , Zophiel. Right?’

Zophiel pushed the reindeer-antler headband back up onto their head, as it had started sliding down onto their face. ‘Yeah. We are pretty cool.’

‘Exactly. So come on. Get it together. Help me wrap their gift.’

Zophiel nodded, and the bells on the antlers jingled Christmassily. 

‘D’you think they’ll like like it?’ Zophiel asked, reaching up onto the desk for the selotape.

‘Yeah! Of course! Duh. It’s an awesome gift. Like, best gift _ever._ It’s _perfect._ Hold down this bit of paper for me?’’

‘All right. Michael and Gabriel and that, they won’t know we sent it, will they? Or, like, track it or anything? Last thing we need is them being all like _We Thought We Made Ourselves Clear That No Contact Was To Be Made With The Renegades Blah Blah Blah_...’

‘Nah, it’s fine. Sami sent me up one of the little masking devices that Hell uses to obscure little things from Heaven. I’ve jigged it about a bit so sending the parcel down won’t register on the track-y thingamajig for miracles.’ Penemue ripped off a strip of tape with their teeth. ‘Not that Michael pays any attention to anything we do anyway. Move your thumb.’

‘Ah, that’s _lit_. Good old Sami. Hey, did she say anything about whether they’ve got any plans to replace Crowley Down There, yet?’

Penemue shook their head. ‘Mm-mm. Not yet.’

‘What _still_ !? It’s been like… How long? Like… Like, there’s been like three new series’ of _Queer Eye_ since that Apocalypse fiasco. Dragging their feet a bit, aren’t they?’

‘Sami said they aren’t even sure whether they’re _gonna_ replace him. No one really knows what’s going on, do they? Like, is _Armageddon_ off the table for good now, _or_ …? Fuck knows. _They_ certainly don’t have any idea. So, like, why put agents on Earth if not to secure souls for the War, if there might not even _be_ a War? Don’t even know why Michael gave us the job, to be honest.’’

‘Probably just to stop me emailing her about it all the time. It’s a good gig, my dude. Won’t have to bribe Tanariel in body-issuing every time we wanna cheeky little trip to Earth. Now we’re, like, _official._ Epic, bro! Sam and Charlie aren’t going after the job, then?’

‘Hah! As if!’

‘What? Why not? They’re the Earth obz. team in Hell, makes sense.’

‘Duh, dude _you know_ what Sam and Chaz are like. Not exactly _go-getters_ , are they?’

Zophiel scoffed. ‘Oh, and we are?’

‘Uhhhh _yah_. Compared to them. Look, you know as well as I do that Samiaza is like, _waaaay_ more angelic than either of us. She doesn’t give a toss about Hell. They probably wouldn’t trust her even if she did go after it. And, like, fair enough, tee bee aitch. She’d screw them over first chance she got, Noah Fence. And Chaziel… He’s just weird...’

‘I like him. He’s cute. Quiet.’

‘All he ever talks about is the _weather_. Like… _obsessively_. That’s all he ever “observes” of earth, too. Sami told me. All the reports he sends to Lord Beelzebub, just obsessively detailed accounts of earth weather.’

‘I bet old Beezy _loves_ that...’

‘Wouldn’t like to be in those review meetings, that’s for sure-- Ah, yikers, there isn’t enough paper to cover this end. I think I’ve got some extra sheets in that drawer, would you just--’

Zophiel hopped to their feet and rummaged through Penemue’s chaotic desk drawer until finally unearthing a sheet of very, very green wrapping paper. It had frogs on it.

‘Here you go!’

‘Thanks, bro. Look, I’ll hold it here, you, like, tape it to the other bits of paper. Cover up the gap.’

‘Looks all right,’ Zophiel pronounced as they finished sticking down the last bit of tape. ‘We got a card to go with it?’

‘Yup. But I dunno if we should _sign_ it. I mean… Is that a bit… I know we’ve got the tracker-blocker thing, but it feels a bit…’

‘Dicey?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean, man. But we can’t just put _nothing_ , can we?’

Penemue bit the inside of their cheek thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, that’d be a bit…’

‘Sketchy?’

‘Yeah. Like, they might be all _Who In The Name Of Goodness Sent Us This Lit Ay Eff Gift_ , and you know how _anxious_ they both are. I don’t wanna freak ‘em out. It’s ‘sposed to be a _nice_ thing…’

Zophiel frowned and pursed their lips. ‘Well… Well, how about… You remember that time we skivved off to earth and went skating and Crowley ran you over?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, so, I’m guessing that hitting an angel on rollerskates with your car is pretty memorable, so _they_ probably remember that too.’

‘Where’re you going with this?’

‘Well, I mean, like, couldn’t we just sign it _From Your Biggest Fans On Rollerskates_ , or something? ‘Cos that’s like, proper cryptic to any _interlopers_ , but Aziraphale and Crowley are smart dudes, like, they’d figure that out easy enough, wouldn’t they?’

‘That’s actually a good idea, Zo!’

‘Don’t sound so surprised. Rude.’

‘Hey, and we sent them that letter before, right? What did we sign that with?’

‘Our _human_ names, I think.’

‘Yeah! Yeah! What were they? I was Ash, you were… Peach? Kiwi? Banana…?’

‘Apple.’

‘That’s the bunny. We could put those, too. Then they’ll _definitely_ know it’s from us. And then they won’t freak out! And then they can just be like _Oh, Woah, What A Thoughtful And Amazing Christmas Gift From Our Absolutely Favourite Angels Ever, Hooray! Now We Will Have An Extra Super Fun Christmas, Oh And Is That Mistletoe Above Us? Oh, Well, It Is Tradition After All My Dear Boy…’_

Peneume proceeded to make kissing noises whilst Zophiel giggled.

‘They’d better invite us to their wedding when they get married. I have a _speech._ ’

‘Babe, I don’t think they’re gonna get married. S’abit, you know, like… I dunno. _Marriage_ , really? Bit old school.’

‘Dude, they’re like, a bajillion years old. They _are_ old school.’

‘Yeah, I guess. Well, we’ll see. _For now_ , card! Go get your glitter pens, Zo!’

* * *

_The South Downs, Christmas Day_

It was 8am, and the sun was just beginning to nose its way out of bed and up into the cloudy sky. The weather was wet and windy, as was traditional for Christmas Day in England. Inside of their cottage, Aziraphale and Crowley were curled up under warm blankets, and comfortably refusing to get up. It was Christmas, after all, and for anyone without small children, not having a lie in on Christmas Morning was practically crime against the Crown.

Crowley stretched, and pulled the duvet up under his chin, blinking in the orangey-pink sunlight as it streamed in through the window. ‘Mmmnnmmm…. Morning,’ he murmured sleepily. 'Oh, yeah, and Merry Christmas.’

Aziraphale smiled without opening his eyes. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said back. 

‘Now,’ Crowley said, turning over onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow, ‘is one of us going to get up and make a pot of tea…’

Aziraphale shook his head and pressed himself back into the very fluffy pillow. ‘Too cold.’

‘...or are we going to go back to sleep until the heating gets its arse in gear and decides to warm the place up a bit?’

‘The latter sounds _infinitely_ preferable, my dear,’ Aziraphale mumbled, drowsily.

‘And miss even more of Christmas morning, angel?’ Crowley tutted. ‘What happened to _getting up early for a nice walk along the beach_?’

Aziraphale groaned and turned onto his other side so that his back faced the irritating demon. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he muttered.

‘What happened to _lie-ins are pointless, you don’t need sleep, Crowley, it’ll be much nicer to have a brisk stroll on Christmas morning_. Hm?’

‘I’m _asleep_ …’ the angel hissed.

Crowley laughed and prodded Aziraphale between his shoulder blades. ‘You’re a _nightmare_ , is what you are.’

The demon flopped back down onto his back and was just falling back into a deliciously pleasant doze, when there was a loud knock at the front door.

Aziraphale groaned. ‘Blast it, what _time_ is it, Crowley?’

Crowley glanced at his watch. ‘8:15.’

‘Who on _earth_ could be at the door at this ungodly hour?’

‘Carolers?’ Crowley suggested.

‘Bloody keen carolers. It’s a fifteen minute drive to the nearest village!’

‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’

Aziraphale sighed and heaved himself up. ‘I suppose I’d better go and see who it is.’

‘I’ll go, if you want.’

‘No, it’s okay. I should get up, anyway. Shouldn’t waste the day sleeping, really, should I?’

If Crowley hadn’t been deeply irritated at the mysterious door-knocker before, he _certainly_ was now. Aziraphale having a lie-in was about as rare as Hell freezing over (which actually wasn’t all that rare, as Hell’s central heating was, quite frankly, a shambles) and Crowley had been rather looking forward to it.

‘Well, look,’ the demon said, swinging his own feet onto the wooden floor and wincing at how cold it felt on his bare feet, ‘how about we both go see who it is, and then I’ll make us a cup of tea, and we can come back to bed to drink it, yeah? And have some cake for breakfast, too? Or mince pies? I’ll heat them up first…’

‘No, if we’re up we may as well _stay_ up. And didn’t you want to go for a walk? May as well, now.’

Crowley cursed under his breath as the angel shuffled into his slippers and pulled on his dressing gown and headed for the front door. The demon trailed along behind him with his hands shoved sullenly in his robe pockets.

They opened the front door and were met with a cheery and vaguely familiar face. 

‘Good morning, fellas! Cor blimey, what a coincidence, eh? Been a while since I last saw you two! Glad to see you’re still together, then. Nice pair of lads I thought when I met you. Right, well, I’ve got a package for you! Sign here, if you don’t mind!’

Aziraphale peered over his reading glasses at the clipboard thrust under his nose.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. The logo on the man’s shirt read _International Express._

 _‘You_?’ the demon hissed. He stepped protectively in front of Aziraphale, who tutted and elbowed him back out of the way, muttering about _getting in his light_. ‘What are you doing here? _Who sent you_?’

The International Express Delivery man smiled brightly and shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I just get assigned the job, no questions asked. When you get paid as well as I do, you don’t ask questions!’ He took the clipboard back off of Aziraphale. ‘Right then! Nice to see you again, chaps. Merry Christmas!’

And the International Express Delivery Man drove away.

Aziraphale and Crowley shut the door against the cold wind, and went to sit at the kitchen table. The package was set down squarely in the middle of it, and the angel and the demon stared at it, warily.

It was wrapped in holographic-silver wrapping paper printed with a design of rainbow christmas trees, apart from one panel on which there appeared to be neon green frogs.

‘What on _earth…_ ’

‘Does he… deliver _regular_ packages, or only occult ones?’ Crowley asked anxiously.

‘I’m not sure… Certainly no _regular_ postman delivers on Christmas day. Not even _Yodel_ make their deliverymen work today, and you know how awful they are…’

Crowley eyed the hideous box dubiously. ‘Do you think it’s safe to open it?’

‘I don’t sense anything particularly _malevolent_ about it,’ Aziraphale replied, although he didn’t sound confident. ‘Look, there’s an envelope attached to the side. Perhaps we could open that first?’

Crowley jiggled his leg beneath the table. ‘I don’t like this…’

‘It might not be… _them_. They did say they were going to leave us alone, my dear.’

‘Yeah, but it’s been a few years… Maybe they’ve changed their minds.’

‘By sending us a Christmas gift?’

Crowley glanced at his angel. ‘I suppose that is a bit, ngk, _unlikely_ … And Hell would never send something so _garish_.’

Aziraphale took the envelope and carefully slid out the card. 

It said " _Happy Birthday Baby Jesus!_ " on it, alongside a picture of a cactus wearing sunglasses and a Father Christmas hat.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

Clearing his throat, the angel opened the card and read aloud the writing inside:

_‘Dear Aziraphale and Crowley,_

_First of all - Merry Christmas! We hope you are having a totally super epic Christmas day, although if that delivery dude has done his job right, then you should be getting this at like 10am or something, so Christmas hasn’t really started, I guess. We hope you’ve had a nice Christmas breakfast, at least!_

_We shouldn’t be sending this, really, but, you know, fuck it. You guys are awesome, and you totally, like, sort of helped save the world. And we love the world. And we love you guys. You’re the best. Seriously._

_Anyway. Merry Christmas, hope you like the gift!_

_Hopefully we’ll be able to come and see you some time. We’ve been_ promoted _, how cool is that? It’s not quite the same as your job used to be, cos, like, you were officially declared… I don’t know, obsolete, or redundant, or something like that, so box-ticky stuff said we couldn’t just like, have your exact job, but it’s sort of the same, ish. Point is, we get to come to…_ *something scribbled out* _Er, that is to say, we are humans and your job is being a bookseller, and that’s what we’ve been promoted to, and we’ll hopefully get to go on a business trip or something to the South Downs or Soho, wherever you are, really, at some point, and maybe we can hang out?_

_Lots and lots and lots of love and Christmas Wishes,_

_Your Totally Super Biggest Fans, Who Are Mediocre Rollerskaters, and Definitely 100% Human,_

_Ash and Apple_

_XoXoXoXoXo_

And then, in different handwriting at the bottom: _Also please if you get married please please please send us an invite to your wedding please please please. Merry Christmas. I love you!_

_P.P.S Super hope you like the gift, we spent ages choosing it <3’ _

Aziraphale finished reading and absently stood the strange little card up on the table. 

Crowley pulled a face and said _‘_ Ngk.’

‘Well,’ Aziraphale replied awkwardly, ‘I suppose that at least clears up _who this is from_ … Do you want to open it, or shall I?’

Crowley, who would rather the package have been from _Satan himself_ than from those two insane angels who seemed to treat his and Aziraphale’s life like their favourite soap opera, shook his head. God only knew what could be inside that box. For all Crowley knew it could be wedding-cake toppers of him and the angel. Or a book filled with instagram-filtered images of them together surrounded with little hearts and cliche, sappy quotes from _Hallmark_ Christmas films. Probably _was_ that, actually. And although his relationship with Aziraphale was far less guarded than it used to be, Crowley was still not one for being terribly _demonstrative_. Or having others being demonstrative on his behalf…

‘No. You open it,' the demon said. 'They’re crazy, it’s probably, ngk., filled with exploding glitter, or something. I _hate_ glitter.’

Aziraphale carefully peeled the gaudy wrapping paper off of the parcel.

And then they stayed silent for a few moments. Staring.

Aziraphale frowned, and finally spoke. ‘What _is it_?’

‘Uh…’ Crowley’s voice cracked as his face broke, against his wishes into a wide grin. ‘Well,’ he said, starting to laugh, ‘I, er, I think it’s a, uh, a _Scalextric_ set…’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've reached the end of this chapter and find yourself asking _"Who the heck are Penemue and Zophiel, and why should I care?"_ then I direct you to my Inktober collection of short stories ( _geniusly_ titled _Inkt-GO-ber_...) and then to the chapters "Freeze", "Ash", "Misfit", and "Injured", wherein you will, if you are so inclined, be able to get to become better acquainted with the biggest Aziraphale/Crowley shippers this side of Port Talbot.


	14. Eggnog

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale chirped excitedly as his poked his head around the heavy oak-framed door of the cottage’s kitchen and into the cosy living room adjacent. ‘I think I’ve managed it, this time!’

Crowley glanced up from his magazine. ‘Oh, have you? Congrats.’

‘Well, come on! I need you to taste it, dear boy. This is all on your behalf, after all…’

‘Angel, I did say you didn’t have to worry about it. Honestly, I’m not even that much of a fan of--’

‘Nonsense, Crowley. It’s traditional.’

‘Since when?’

‘Seventeen hundreds, I think.’

‘Yeah, in America, maybe. Last time I checked, we were still in England.’

‘Well, I’ve made it now, so do come and try it. I think this one has finally  _ cracked it _ .’

With a sigh Crowley peeled himself up from the comfortable sofa and sauntered, dragging his feet, into the kitchen.

He was being unbelievably ungrateful, he did know that. And he did feel quite guilty over it, really. Aziraphale had always been fairly critical of Crowley’s  _ vegetarianism _ , never quite trusting it (and rightly so, as Crowley had always emphatically insisted that his dietary preferences had firm origins in the infernal, and definitely had nothing to do with the fact that he was a soft-hearted, overly-sentimental old fool who spent far too many of his formative years on earth hanging around with shepherds). 

But ever since Crowley had taken the further step of going almost completely  _ vegan _ after the whole  _ Buggering Up The Great Plan  _ debacle, the angel had been weirdly accepting. It was a bit disconcerting. Crowley had had a whole defensive speech prepared, and had been slightly put out when his had work hard proven utterly unneeded. Aziraphale had been faultlessly supportive.

Unfortunately a great deal of that supportiveness came in the form of  _ culinary experimentation _ . 

Aziraphale was a great connoisseur of fine dining. He had throughout his life enjoyed (and critiqued…) meals prepared by the greatest chefs the world had ever seen. His tastes were refined, particular, and expensive, and his palate was second to none. When it came to wine-tasting, no one could tell their  _ Le Pin’s  _ from their  _ Petrus’  _ as expertly as the angel. He knew what he was talking about when it came to good food and good drink, was the point.

And yet, somehow, Aziraphale was a catastrophically abysmal cook.

Enthusiastic, though. Crowley had to give him that.

That was a new development. Before the Apocafuckup (Crowley’s preferred term for the event, mostly because of how it made Aziraphale wince - less for the cursing, more for the cavalier bastardisation of the English language), Aziraphale had never been at all inclined to step foot in a kitchen, except to make a cup of tea or to  _ have words _ with the new chef at the Ritz. 

But since they day the world hadn’t quite exploded, Aziraphale had started getting keen on being a bit more  _ hands on _ . And when they bought the holiday cottage on the South Downs, well, that was the end of it. The kitchen had an  _ aga _ . It also had a newly fitted top-of-the-range electric hob, and one of those excessively large and expensive American refrigerators (Crowley had purchased that one. It had an ice dispenser that did ice cubes, tiny ice cubes,  _ and _ crushed ice. Really upped the demon’s cocktail game, that).

And, now, it also had a blender, a slow cooker, a food processor, a waffle iron, an ice cream machine, and a weird thing with worryingly ominous metal hooks on it that Crowley still couldn’t figure out the purpose of.

Yet, with all of this dark gadgetry at his disposal, Aziraphale still seemed incapable of producing anything in any way  _ edible _ . Thankfully he was at least self-aware enough to recognise this ( _ most  _ of the time, anyway…), and so Crowley hadn’t had to try to  _ eat _ the blackened, over-salted, misshapen monstrosities that the angel pulled out from, apparently, the portal to Hell situated behind the doors of the aga. 

Aziraphale could, however, make an excellent eggnog.

He’d always been good at that, even right back in the day before it was associated with Christmas, and was still called  _ posset.  _ He was quite proud of his egg-nog creating abilities, and even had quite the creative flair - his  _ Peppermint Schnapps _ version had gone down remarkably well with  _ the Lost Generation _ . 

And so, when Crowley had, with put-on bravado, announced that he was going  _ plant-based _ , Aziraphale found himself facing a bit of a roadblock. 

But he was never one to be so easily defeated, as Heaven and Hell had both learned, back in that fateful summer. After all, if the  _ Antichrist _ couldn’t stop the angel, a vegan eggnog recipe had  _ no chance _ .

It was certainly putting up a bloody good fight though.

Crowley stalked into the kitchen and eyed the slightly off-coloured glass of  _ whatever it was _ warily. Granted, it did look more like eggnog than the earlier attempts had. It was certainly in the ballpark.

‘What’s in it?’ Crowley asked tentatively as Aziraphale pushed a glass of the stuff into his unwilling hand.

‘ _ Well _ ,’ the angel began, ‘after having, erm,  _ limited _ success using tofu--’

‘Bit of an understatement…’ the demon muttered.

‘And after the interesting, but not  _ quite _ right  _ bananas and coconut cream _ attempt--’

‘That actually wasn’t bad,’ Crowley cut in. ‘Definitely not eggnog, but very drinkable. Add some pineapple juice and some Malibu and you’d have been onto a winner with that one.’

‘ _ As _ I was  _ saying _ …’ Aziraphale continued with a pointed look, ‘I have learned from my mistakes.  _ This _ version is made with cashew nuts, dates, almond milk, maple syrup, various spices, and a generous shot of bourbon.  _ I  _ think it tastes rather authentic. Or, at least, as authentic as a vegan eggnog can be, in any case. Go on then, dear boy, try it!’

Crowley took a deep breath. ‘Right. Okay. Bottom’s up…’ 

Taking a sip of the sticky liquid, he swished it around his mouth experimentally and frowned. 

Aziraphale waited with clasped hands, baited breath, and an endearingly hopeful expression. 

‘Wow,’ Crowley said after finally swallowing the drink. ‘That’s actually good, angel!  _ Properly _ good. I’m impressed.’

Aziraphale  _ beamed _ . 

‘Oh, really? You’re not just saying it?’

‘When have I ever lied to you? Anyway, if I lied about  _ that _ then I’d have to keep drinking something I hated, because you’d keep making it for me. As much as I hate to say it, in this scenario _ honesty is the best policy _ . Remember the  _ aubergine spaghetti _ disaster?’

‘How could I forget…’ the angel murmured. Then he brightened once more. ‘Well, that’s  _ wonderful _ to hear, my dear. I am  _ so _ glad that you like it. And now I have the base, I can begin  _ experimenting… _ ’

Crowley held up a hand. ‘No, honestly Aziraphale, I like this. Just  _ plain _ . Simple. You don’t have to start  _ adding  _ stuff…’

‘That’s the  _ fun _ bit, Crowley! Now, I have been thinking for a while of doing a  _ xocolatl _ iteration, and adding some of those  _ ghost chilis _ you’ve been growing…’

‘Aziraphale, if you think I’m going to drink--’

‘Just  _ try _ it, my dear, that’s all I ask. It’s that or I go back to  _ shortbread _ again.’

‘All right, all right. No need to threaten  _ torture _ , angel!’


	15. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently it used to be traditional to tell ghost stories on Christmas Eve, in England! THIS NEEDS TO BE REVIVED!
> 
> Anyway. This may be actually unreadable, as I just smashed it out iin the last hour and a half. It's now 25 minutes away from Christmas, at least where I am, and I need to get up at 530 to start cooking, because I'm antisocial and have a shared kitchen, and want to get in there before anyone else. Therefore, enjoy this in its unedited, un-proof-read, in fact _un-read at all_ glory.
> 
> Chaos and nonsense.
> 
> Just how we like it.

‘If you’ll excuse me, my darlings, I really think I ought to be going up the wooden hill to the land of nod about now--’ 

‘Oh, come now, Florence, you surely can’t be going to bed yet? Why, it’s barely gone ten o’clock!’

‘Oh, yes, Flossie darling, Ginger is quite right, you simply mustn’t leave yet! It’d ruin my entire Christmas!’

‘Bobbie, I’ll still be here in the morning, I shan’t ruin anything. I’m so awful tired, the journey down was _beastly_ …’

‘The girl is talking of retiring when we haven’t even had any ghost stories yet! Whatever next, stopping Christmas day before anyone has any Brussels Sprouts? Ending the New Year’s party at eleven thirty? Good god.’

‘Blimey, yes, that’s a bally good point there. Flossie you can’t go to bed before we tell ghost stories. What would the Baby Jesus say? Hm?’

‘Harold, that’s _blasphemy_!’

‘You say everything is blasphemy, Annie. You’re no fun’

‘I didn’t say I _minded_ , darling…’

‘Oh, Flossie, please stay for some ghost stories. We’ll lower the lights, and-- Oh, Ginger, did you remember to bring down Mummy’s old ouija board?!’ 

A young man with extremely red hair reached under the chair and pulled out the board with a flourish.

‘Of course, sister dearest.’

‘Oh… Bobbie, really, I don’t think I like the sound of this…’

‘Flossie do stop being such a stick-in-the-mud and sit down.’

Flossie sat down next to Bobbie, who was sat next to Ginger, who was sat next to Harold, who was sat next to Annie, who was sat next to a quiet girl named Rose, who sat next to me, and I, in turn was sat, closing the loop, next to Flossie. 

These names are, for the most part, irrelevant, but it does help to have placeholders for participants, don’t you think? Better than saying “Persons A, B, and C”, or neglecting to mention people altogether. Then you might get the impression I was sitting entirely alone in my room and talking to myself. Which, I suppose, for the central purpose of this narrative, wouldn’t be too much of a problem, but it really would put rather a tarnish on my social status. Make me sound rather an antisocial cad, don’t you think? Exactly. I knew you’d agree.

It was, should you have yet to have surmised, Christmas Eve. More precisely, it was Christmas Eve in the year of Our Lord, 19XX. A middling year, as years go, mostly notable, in my diary at least, for the excellent rowing by the Blues in the regatta, and for the marvellous (in the precise sense of the word…) events of that Christmas Eve…

But here I am stalling the narrative by telling you how incredible the narrative is, when I am quite sure that you are sitting there tapping your fingernails on your glass of scotch, or red wine, or perhaps, for the tee-totalers among you (my sincerest condolences), on your tumbler of orange juice, and wondering to yourself when the bally author is going to hurry up and get to the good stuff?

Patience, my dear reader. I’m getting to it.

‘Okay then,’ Bobbie said, leaning forward, eyes sparkling with her usual rigorous sense of mischief and glee, ‘who’s first?’

‘Well, I could tell the story of the Grey Nun…’

‘Oh, god, Harold, not your bloody Grey Nun story again. Awfully dull, darling. Someone else? _Anyone_ else? Save us from Harry, please…’

Rose, who, as far as I had noticed at least, had barely spoken a word all evening bar to thank the butler when he’d topped up her glass of port after dinner, raised a cautious and pale little hand. 

‘Rose, sweetheart, you have a ghost story?’

Rose nodded. 

She reminded me a great deal of a timid little bird, or perhaps some sort of small and easily startled horse. Certainly not the type of girl one would expect to have any terribly interesting ghost stories. Or any terribly interesting stories in general. Or, honestly, any interesting _anything_ at all _._ She had _dull_ written all over her. Were I to cut her in half I shouldn’t have been surprised to find the word stamped right through the core of her like a stick of Brighton Rock.

Shows what I know, eh?

As I said, Rose nodded. ‘Yes. It’s a true one, too. No one ever believes me, but I swear on my grandmother’s grave, it’s as true as anything.’

‘Oh, well now I’m _very_ intrigued, dearest,’ Bobbie said pleasantly. Bobbie is a jolly pleasant girl, aside from all the troublemaking. ‘Let’s hear it, Rose.’

Rose stared at us all with wide eyes. ‘Okay. But please don’t tell me I’m making it up or anything, because I’m really truly not, and I haven’t ever told anyone this before... I don’t believe in making up stories. My grandfather always said that was just a step away from telling falsehoods, and I never, ever do that. So you must all promise to believe me, first?’

I caught Ginger’s eye and quickly looked away again, lest I start laughing, or set him off laughing, and hurt the poor girl’s feeling. 

We all nodded sombrely and promised not to think she was lying, and to take every word from her mouth as God’s own truth. Evidently none of our grandfathers had ever drilled into us that telling falsehoods was such a cardinal sin, as we were all lying through our back teeth. Well, I was at least, and I know for a fact that Ginger and Bobbie were, too. The others could have gone either way. 

Regardless…

‘Okay then,’ Rose said, a slight quiver in her voice. ‘I’ll tell you.’

And thus her story began:

‘When I was small, must have only been about four years old, my brother Jack and I were up awfully late one night. My father was a doctor, you see, and my mother often assisted him on emergency call outs, and as Jack was so much older than me -- ten years older, for those of you who don’t know him -- they would, on occasion, when there was such an emergency, leave Jack and me alone in the house whilst they rushed off to deal with sicknesses, or a tricky childbirth, or an accident or what-have you.

This was one of those nights. I can’t recall what the emergency was that called them away, but it must have been rather serious, as they were gone for several hours. I never liked to sleep without Mummy or Daddy in the house, and Jack didn’t like to make me cry by insisting, and so we were both sat up in the parlour, even though it must have been awfully late. Jack was reading in Daddy’s big armchair, and I was sitting by the window and staring out into the dark street.

That’s when I saw the man. Or the-- Well. I saw something, in any case, and he did look like a man, otherwise we never would have… But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

I sat and watched the man through the window. He kept pacing up and down, walking a few yards in one direction, then turning around and pacing back the same way he’d come. He kept waving his arms around and shaking his head as though he were having an argument with someone, only there was no one else there.

Then, suddenly, he turned and stared at me. Straight at me, as though he knew I was watching him. It scared me something rotten, but I mustered up a smile and gave him a little wave, because Grandmother always taught me to be polite. But the man waved back, and then started walking across the street. 

As he got closer, I was able to get a better look at his face and I... I still can’t explain it properly to this day. I’ve never seen anything like it before or since, and I hope never to again. It makes my skin crawl just remembering it. Remembering _him_.

It was as though he simply didn’t _fit_ in this world. Like he was from somewhere _else_ . And his teeth were _sharp_ , like those pictures of piranha fish you see in encyclopaedia’s and magazine’s and the like. _Horrible_ . And his eyes, oh good _God_ , his eyes were completely _black_ . Like pits. Like staring into Hell itself. Everything about him felt wrong. He felt _evil_.

The man, although I don’t truly believe he _was_ a man walked right up to the window, right in front of me, and tapped on the glass. I was frozen to the spot, my heart racing like a bunny rabbit facing a fox. He pointed at the front door, then he pointed at me, and then he pointed at the door again and nodded. 

He wanted me to open it.

And I can’t tell you why, even to this day, but I _did_ . It was as though I couldn’t say no to his request. I don’t know if I was too scared, or too obedient or-- But the _thing_ had asked me to open the front door, and so, and so… And so I _did_.

Jack looked up from his book as I stood up, and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was going to get a glass of water. I _lied_ to him, to my own brother. I _never_ lie. Never. But I could feel those black eyes watching me, and I knew that if I told Jack what I was really doing he would stop me, and somehow I knew that if Jack did that then something _bad_ would happen. That he’d get hurt or-- And don’t ask me how I knew it, but I _did_ . And I believe I was right, I really do. That _thing_ would have…

I walked into the hallway, and up to the big front door. I had to stand on my tiptoes to reach the lock. 

When I opened the door, the man was already standing there. He crouched down to my level, and when he smiled it felt like fingernails being dragged down a blackboard, and he smelled like dead flowers. 

He stared at me for a few moments, and then held up a match in front of my face. He struck it against the stonework and it sparked into life.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” he said to me, with a voice like pebbles cracking together. 

“Mummy says that matches are dangerous,” I told him,

“Do you always listen to your Mummy?”

I nodded. 

“Well, I was just speaking with your Mummy, and do you know what she said?”

I shook my head.

“Your Mummy said she wanted you to come with me, and use one of these little matches to set fire to a big old building that no one really wants around anymore. Do you think you can do that for your Mummy?”

“I need to tell Jack…”

“Oh no you don’t,” the man snapped, seizing my wrist, “you don’t got to tell no one, girlie. Now, come with me. And don’t even think about screaming, or I’ll tell your Mummy that you were disobedient, you understand?”

The man dragged me out of the house. I tripped on the front steps and cut my knee, but he didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he didn’t care. I stumbled back to my feet and he pulled me all the way down the street to the church at the end of the road. It was a beautiful church. 

“Right,” he said. “This is it. Now you, little girl, you are going to take these matches, and you are going to go into that church, and set it on fire.”

“I don’t think God will like it very much if I set His church on fire, sir. He’ll be awful cross…”

“Listen, either you go into that church and burn it down, or I go back to your house and _kill your brother_ , got it?”

I shook my head. My grandmother had always taught me that God would protect me. That if you do the right thing, then God will always look out for you, and keep you safe, in this life and the next. 

And then the man _changed_ . Just for a second. Just for a second he became this… this… this _monstrosity_. I can’t even describe it. 

I screamed.

And suddenly two more men appeared beside me. 

They didn't feel evil, at all. Quite the opposite, in fact...

The man with the black eyes, the one who had dragged me from my house, he panicked and tried to run away, but the man with blonde hair tripped him up, and the other man, with dark hair, he grabbed him by the collar at the same time. The evil creature buckled, and choked, and gasped, and began trying to plead with the men.

“Oh, bloody hell,” the dark-haired man snapped. “Who are you? No, actually, I don’t care who you are, you’re clearly a nobody. So _who sent you_ ? Not Beelzebub or Dagon. They know better. They might not be sophisticated, but they are far too clever for _this_. Sending some idiotic little minion up to earth? Really?”

“That’s an _Angel_ …” the creature wailed. “What’re you doing with an _Angel_ , Crowley!? Why’re you attacking me, get _it!_ ”

The other man, the _Angel_ , stepped forward. “Oh, well, it’s rather a long story, but please rest assured that mine and Crowley's arrival here together was pure coincidence. I don't even know him. Well, by reputation, of course, but certainly not--"

"Shut up, angel..."

“Crowley, let me go! Get the Angel!”

“Tell me who sent you.”

The creature, who was looking less and less human by the second, whined. “Hastur, Duke Hastur,” it finally replied. “Wanted to… to make you look bad. Said you’d been sleeping on the job again, that they needed someone to get up here and actually do some work, I--”

The man, Crowley, growled and threw the creature to the ground and cursed. “You get back down there and you tell _Duke Hastur_ that you are a pitiful excuse for a demon who shouldn’t be trusted to cause an explosion in a dynamite factory. And that Anthony Crowley _sends his thanks_ for the _wake up call_ , but is quite awake, and _working_ . Go on, _get!”_

He kicked the creature, and it yelped, and then scurried away into the darkness.

“That’s just _brilliant_ ,” Crowley muttered. “Just what I need right now…”

“Crowley--”

“I _know_ I may have overstepped the mark _somewhat_ with that extended nap, but after all the _work_ I’ve put in over the years, all the _effort_ I’ve put in…”

“Crowley--”

“And it’s not as though I’m not making up for it, now. I’ve been working overtime, lately. I’ve caught up on all of my reports, and I was over in France just last month, I swear to _somebody_ that if Hastur doesn’t think I’ll be putting in a formal complaint over this then he’s got another thing--”

“ _Crowley!!_ ”

The taller, blonde man crouched down beside me. Crowley stared at me and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ah,” he said.

“Hello, my dear,” the tall man said. “Are you okay?”

I think I must have shaken my head, because I remember the tall man looking up at the Crowley man with a worried expression.

“Did that… man… hurt you, at all?”

“No. He just… He made me go away from my house. He told me to burn down the church, and that if I didn’t, he’d kill my brother…”

“Oh, subtle. Classy. Brilliant”, Crowley muttered.

“Oh, you poor little thing,” the other man said, taking my hands in his. “You’ve been very brave.”

“What’s your name?”

“Rose. Rose Illiford.”

“What happened to your knee?” Crowley said, sitting down on the floor next to me. 

“I fell down.”

The two men shared a look, and then the tall man waved his hand and the cut _disappeared_.

“All better,” he said with a kind smile. “Where do you live, Rose? Is it very far away from here, my dear?”

I pointed to my house, just up the street.

“I think we should get you back home, Rose,” the tall man said. “Does that sound like a good idea?”

And then they took me home. 

Jack hadn’t even noticed I’d gone. 

They took me right up to the front door and made sure I got in safely. And before they left, Crowley took a little toy snake out of his pocket and gave it to me. I still have it. That’s how I know it was real and not just a dream. Or a nightmare. Or…”

Rose wrapped her arms around herself. She had tears in her eyes, and yet she was smiling.

“Do you know what I believe?” she asked us all, and we all shook our heads, wide-eyed. “I believe that the man, the bad man, I believe he was a ghost, or an evil spirit, or, or _something_ . And those two men, Crowley and his friend, I believe that _God_ sent them to protect me. Because I refused to burn down the Church, God sent me Guardian Angels to look after me. Just like my grandmother always told me. God _protected_ me from a _poltergeist_ …!”

The room stayed silent. Mouths hung agape. Furtive glances were exchanged.

Ginger was the first to break the silence. Naturally.

“By jove, you don’t honestly expect us to believe all of that, do you?”

Ginger never was the most tactful of lads. Excellent cricketer, no one could doubt that, but when it came to tact, he was, admittedly, somewhat lacking.

Rose crumpled.

“Oh, oh gosh, Rose darling, don’t cry! Of course we believe you! _Don’t we_?” Bobbie elbowed Ginger sharply in the ribs. Having personally been the recipient of that elbow on more than one occasion, I can assure you that it is a singularly unpleasant experience.

“Ow! Bobbie! Erm, no, yes, I mean, _of course_ we believe you. All completely believable.”

“Gosh, but Rose, did that really, truly happen? All of it?”

Rose nodded sombrely and wiped away a tear.

“Let’s try and talk to them,” Harold said, leaning forward in his chair with a grin.

“What,” I said, “are you talking about?”

“Let’s use the ouija board! Talk to these _Guardian Angels!”_

“Oh, no!” Rose cried out. “Oh, no please let’s don’t. That’s _sacrilegious!”_

“No it’s not,” Harold replied jovially. “You never got to thank them, right? Well, why don’t you? That’s not sacrilegious. That’s just good manners.”

“Harry, don’t wind her up, it’s not flattering darling,” Annie chastised. Annie was Harold’s fiance.

“I’m not winding her up, sweetpea, I am absolutely serious. We should try to contact them.” He pulled the ouija board out from under Ginger’s chair and placed it on the coffee table. “What did you say the one chap’s name was? Anthony Crowley?”

Rose nodded, looking pale. Well, more pale than usual. By now she was in fact practically translucent.

And, somehow, before we knew it, we were all sitting around the ouija board with our hands on an upturned glass still containing a few drips of Bobbie’s father’s very expensive scotch, and trying to make contact with Rose’s mysterious Crowley and his nameless Angel friend.

“How do you actually summon a specific, er, _supernatural entity?_ ” Annie asked.

“I suppose we just call out to them,” I said. I’d done a few seances in my time, mostly they were complete nonsense, to be honest, but always jolly good fun. 

Harold obliged. 

“O spirit known by the name of Anthony Crowley, please hear our call… We implore you, answer our message, we wish to speak with you, Anthony Crowley… Anthony Crowley, are you there?”

For a handful of tense moments we all sat in silence, just waiting. Waiting…

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Ginger snapped. “Obviously nothing is--”

And then the glass began to move.

W-H-A-T

“Oh my gosh,” Annie whispered.

The glass began to move more rapidly. 

W-H-O-S- T-H-I-S

We looked at each other.

“Er, well, my name is Roberta,” Bobbie said. “Er, there are quite a few of us here though, and--”

W-H-A-T- D-O- Y-O-U- W-A-N-T-?

“Golly, can you actually hear us, then?” Flossie said.

Y-E-S

V-.- A-N-N-O-Y-I-N-G

“Um, we have Rose Ilford here… She wanted to thank you and your friend. You saved her from a ghost or something when she was little. It wanted her to burn down a Church, and you showed up and kicked it’s backside and took her home. Made quite an impression on the girl,” I said. This Crowley chap seemed rather irritable, even if he was an angel, and I could empathise. It was Christmas eve, after all. I’m sure angels have better things to do on Christmas eve than listen to babbling young idiots. 

The glass stopped moving.

“Oh, look what you’ve done now you, you young cloth-head. You’ve made him go away.”

“Well, maybe he’s just busy,” I replied laconically. 

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Ginger said, shaking his head. “Harold, you’re having us all on. You were just moving the thing around yourself.”

“I am not!” Harold retorted.

“Hah! All right then. If you are actually real,” Ginger said to the ouija board, “and not just Harry moving the glass around to toy with us, then _prove it_.

B-U-G-G-E-R-O-F-F

“Harold! Watch your language!”

“It’s not me, Annabell!”

Y-O-U-C-A-L-L-E-D-M-E

“You aren’t real!”

M-A-Y-B-E- Y-O-U- A-R-E-N-T- R-E-A-L

“If you are real, then tell me what the name of my first dog was?”

H-O-W-T-H-E-H-E-L-L-W-O-U-L-D-I-K-N-O-W

“You’re a ghost! Or an angel, or something.”

Nothing.

Then

H-A-H-A-H-A-H-A

“That’s... different.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever had a ouija board laugh at me before.”

O-H- T-H-I-S- I-S- O-N- A- O-U-I-J-A- B-O-A-R-D-?

“Er, yes.”

Y-O-U- A-T- A- X-M-A-S- P-A-R-T-Y-?

“Yeah. We were telling ghost stories, well, Rose told us a story, about you and your friend, and we thought we’d see if we could say hello. Rose assures us that she is telling the truth. And we believe her, of course. Sorry to bother you, if you’re busy.” This was said by me. I was rather warming to the fellow. 

B-I-T- B-U-S-Y-. W-I-T-H- M-Y- F-R-I-E-N-D.

“The other angel?”

Y-E-S- T-H-E- A-N-G-E-L

“Oh, well Merry Christmas, old sport. Have a scotch on me.”

“Oh good Lord, this is a seance, not a catch up at the club, you silly rabbit. You can’t talk to a _supernatural entity_ so casually!”

“I don’t see why not, Florence,” I replied, somewhat put out. “He seems rather casual himself, I’m simply following his lead!”

“You sound ridiculous!”

“Yes, well, your dress is ridiculous, Flossie, but you don’t hear me complaining about it!”

“Mister Crowley?” Rose said softly, interrupting mine and Flossie’s argument. “If you are there, you and your friend, I just… I just want to thank you. For protecting me. I never thanked you, before. And I-- I still have the little snake that you gave me. Thank you.”

Nothing.

Nothing.

And then…

Y-O-U-R-E- W-E-L-C-O-M-E.

And then

A-Z-I-R-A-P-H-A-L-E- S-A-Y-S- H-I

…

H-E- W-A-S- T-H-E- O-T-H-E-R- O-N-E

…

M-Y- F-R-I-E-N-D- I- M-E-A-N-

…

S-O-R-R-Y- T-H-E- B-A-S-T-A-R-D- R-A-N- O-F-F- W-I-T-H- Y-O-U-R- D-O-L-L-

Rose gasped, at that.

“What?” I said. “You didn’t say anything about a doll, Rose?”

“No, I-- I-- It didn’t seem important, but I… the thing, the ghost, it-- It snatched my doll off of me when I fell and shoved it in its pocket. When it ran away, it took my doll with it…”

“Wait,” I said insightfully. “But… But none of us knew about that. The doll. How could…”

We all stared at the ouija board.

M-E-R-R-Y- C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S- 

It spelled out.

GOODBYE.


	16. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS, WONDERFUL HUMANS!

‘Angel?’ Crowley said, sitting across from Aziraphale on the very comfortable sofa of their very cosy living room in their comfortable, cosy cottage on the South Downs. He had a glass of wine in one hand and an Agatha Christie novel in the other, one finger acting as a bookmark between the pages as he stopped reading to look at his friend.

‘Mm?’ Aziraphale said, looking up from his own book and peering at Crowley over his reading glasses.

‘I love you.’

Aziraphale cocked his head quizzically, a small smile being hinted at in the corners of his mouth and the lines around his eyes and the movement of the muscles in his cheeks.

‘What makes you say that?’ 

Crowley shrugged. ‘I don’t ever really say it.’

‘No, you don’t, do you? Not in so many words, at least.’

‘But you do know?’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale chuckled.

‘Even when I don’t say it?’’

‘Yes, even when you don’t say it.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay,’ the angel said, still laughing softly.

Crowley laid his book down on the back of the sofa, pages splayed so as not to lose his place. ‘I’m, er, I’m going to make a coffee. And probably have another mince pie, I think. You want anything?’

‘Ooh, yes. Same for me please. Warmed up and with brandy-cream?’

‘Naturally.’

Aziraphale shot the demon a quick smile before turning back to his book. As he walked behind the sofa on his way to the kitchen, Crowley squeezed the angel’s shoulder.

Looking back up from his book with a sigh and a warm and fuzzy sensation glowing in his chest, Aziraphale stared pensively into the fireplace. The embers were burning low and steady, but still smouldering strong even after the bright flames had subsided. 

His eyes wandered upwards, taking in the silver and gold Christmas lights which lit up the mantle, and over the handful of christmas cards from well-meaning acquaintances and neighbours. 

Cards were always addressed to them both, never to one or the other individually, even by people who’d never met them both together. Some were tentatively addressed to _Mr Crowley and Mr Fell_ , some more casually to _Ezra and Anthony_. There were also a few, amusingly, to _Mr and Mr Crowley-Fell,_ or some variant thereof. And, as always, there was one from a good old boy they’d met several decades back at some gala or concert or another, and who always, even now, sent them a card every year addressed to _Mr and Mrs Fell_. Crowley always did cut a fine figure in a dress. 

On top of the Christmas tree in the corner sat two angel ornaments. One of them had black wings and a tiny pair of sunglasses. The other was reading a book. Aziraphale looked at them and smiled.

People never could unanimously agree on what quite to make of Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship. Some assumed that they were married, some assumed that they were old friends, and some thought they were strangely dissimilar brothers. Others thought that they were die-hard loyal business partners, and some clearly relished the thought that they were having some kind of explicit, illicit affair (this last type tended to say things like _‘Your “Friend” Anthony… Wink-Wink…’_ which always amused Aziraphale to no end, especially because it unfailingly got Crowley extremely flustered).

But, Aziraphale thought to himself, the shadow-imprint of Crowley’s hand still weighing pleasantly on his shoulder, no matter how people chose to define their relationship, they always and inevitably did define them _as a set_ . As a unit. As two entities wrapped up in one package. It was always _Aziraphale and Crowley_ . Or Ezra and Anthony, or _The Fell-Crowley’s,_ or _whatever_ . It was always _them both_ . A pair. A twosome. A team. _Partners_ . That was the part that _mattered_. All of the rest was irrelevant.

Aziraphale liked it that way. 

It was _Nice and Accurate_.

All of this flashed through Aziraphale’s mind in a matter of mere moments. 

Closing his book, the angel stood up from the sofa, walked into the kitchen and marched up behind Crowley, who was standing at the kitchen counter fiddling with the cafetiere. Weaving his arms around Crowley’s waist, the angel leaned down and hooked his chin over the demon’s shoulder. 

‘I love you a _ridiculous_ amount, you ridiculous creature,’ Aziraphale murmured. ‘I don’t think I tell you that enough.’

‘What are you playing at? Get off me,’ Crowley hissed, making no effort to dislodge the angel. He was, in fact, happily relaxing back into the embrace. Aziraphale had a solid couple of inches height on Crowley, and his hugs were _enveloping._

‘No. I love you.’

‘Go away. Go and read your book.’

‘I love you! I love you, I love you, I love you, _I love you._ ’ 

Crowley bit down on a grin. ‘Ugh...’ 

‘Don’t you make that noise at me, dearest boy. _You_ started it.’

‘Hah!’ Crowley barked, twisting his neck to look around at Aziraphale and ending up with a face full of angel. ‘I don’t think so. Remember Jericho?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Aziraphale replied thoughtfully, tilting his head and letting his gaze flicker indulgently over his demon’s face. ‘Although I don’t think I can take _all_ of the blame for that. You did save that little girl from those soldiers, after all. What was a self-respecting angel _supposed_ to do, after a display like that? Hm?’

Crowley blinked and blushed and turned away, making the angel grin even more wickedly. Even now, after everything, he still got sheepish whenever Aziraphale reminded him of how much of a _good hearted soul_ he was, deep down.

‘Oh for fu-- Aziraphale, go away. I’m trying to make coffee. You’re being a _nuisance._ ’

‘I will _not_ . I am an _angel_ , Crowley. I am a _Being Of Love_.’ 

‘You’re a pain in the arse, is what you are.’

’I can _feel_ love, is the point, my dear boy,’ the angel persisted. ‘And, I assure you, _I_ _can feel_ _love_.’ His hand snaked up from the demon’s waist and tapped the space over his heart. ‘Right here. _Love._ ’ 

‘You’re tipsy, angel.’

‘Yes, but on Boxing Day I shall, probably, be sober. But you, my dear, dear old thing, will still be completely and utterly in--’

‘ _All right!_ Don’t keep saying it!’

Aziraphale laughed, and squeezed Crowley even more tightly for few seconds before finally loosening his grip, to the demon’s disappointment. 

‘Don’t forget the brandy-cream to go with the mince pies,’ Aziraphale said as he finally untangled himself from the demon. ‘It’s in the fridge door.’

‘I _know_ where the bloody cream is, angel.’

‘Just making sure.’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever…’

Crowley sighed as he poured the hot water into the cafetiere.

 _Absolutely impossible,_ the demon thought to himself as he added a shot of whisky to each of their coffees. _An incorrigible, deliberately irritating nuisance, that’s what he is. Completely infuriating._

He poured a generous helping of brandy cream over their warmed mince pies, adding a sprinkle of cinnamon to Aziraphale’s, just the way he liked it. 

_Nightmare of an angel,_ he thought, shaking his head and heading back into the living room. _Mawkish, over-emotional, nauseatingly soppy old fool..._

As Crowley handed him his cup, Aziraphale looked up at him with the brightest, softest smile imaginable, and the demon grinned dopily back as his heart skipped a beat and his face flushed with the warmth of his frankly dizzying affection.

_...He’s almost as bad as me._


	17. Champagne

Aziraphale woke up with a stiff neck, a missing shoe, and surrounded by several empty bottles of champagne. Upon waking, he sat up abruptly with a start. 

He then lay back down equally as abruptly having discovered, previously not having noticed this fact, that he was beneath a table. He groaned, as said discovery had been one of the tactile kind rather than the cerebral. 

Falling back to a horizontal position, the angel grimaced and pressed a hand to his forehead. The thwack on the underside of the table had evidently exacerbated an already pounding headache. It felt, in fact, rather like a herd of elephants were playing roller derby with the inside of his skull as their rink. 

He winced and turned his head away from a beam of bright, warm sunlight which, against all odds, had managed to find a direct path from the window, through the tablecloth, and directly into his eyes. Aziraphale swallowed down a persistently nauseous sensation which was threatening to make him do something quite uncivilized on the expensive looking rug (whose rug was this? Where was he?), but found his mouth so dry that the motion merely sent him spasming into a dry coughing fit. He rolled onto his side.

And then something bit his shoulder.

‘Ouch! Good _lord_!’ 

Aziraphale narrowly avoided headbutting the underside of the table once more, leaping up as sharp teeth broke his skin but stopping himself short just before his cranium made contact with wood. He reached, somewhat desperately, under the collar of his shirt, from whence he pulled, with no small amount of irritation, and perhaps a touch more roughness than was necessary, a small-ish black snake. 

The snake hissed at him and recoiled from the sudden rush of sunlight flooding its sensitive yellow eyes.

‘ _Crowley!_ ’, the angel hissed straight back at him. ‘You _bit_ me!’

The snake squirmed and tried to dive back under Aziraphale’s shirt, but the angel held him firm. 

‘Ughhhhhh….’ the snake somehow managed to sibilliate despite the lack of esses in the sound. ‘Where am I? What’sssssssssssssssss going on?’

‘You _bit_ me, that’s what’s going on!’

‘What? Oh, bloody hell, I feel _sssssserioussssly awful…_ Ssssstop sssssqueezing my head, for sssssomeone’sss sssssake….’

Aziraphale relinquished the vice-like grip he’d been holding on the evidently very hungover snake’s neck, and Crowley dropped onto the angel’s chest. The angel in turn dropped back down to lie flat on the floor.

‘What time isssss it?’ Crowley asked.

‘Don’t know,’ Aziraphale replied.

‘What day isssss it?’ Crowley wondered.

‘Erm, not certain,’ Aziraphale admitted.

‘...Do you remember where we _are_?’ Crowley asked, opening one eye and glancing uncertainly around their immediate environment. As this immediate environment was the underside of as table, this action didn’t prove exceptionally helpful.

‘No. Can’t remember,’ Aziraphale replied once more. ‘This definitely isn’t my rug though, so we aren’t at the bookshop.’

‘Isssssn’t my plassssce, either…’

‘Oh, I simply cannot handle this, I need to do something about this hangover...’

The angel pulled a wretched face as he did so, then blinked and stared up at the table above him rather more placidly.

‘Me too,’ Crowley groaned, or, at least groaned as much as a snake is capable of groaning.

‘Oh, gosh, that does feel better,’ Aziraphale sighed. He nodded dazedly in reply to the snake, not really paying attention, instead revelling in the the feeling of “no-more-headache-and-nausea”. He then found that pleasant sensation being rapidly replaced by the slightly less pleasant sensation of _“s_ uddenly remembering something important a fraction of a second too late”.

‘No, Crowley, wait, you mustn’t--!’

Snakes, you see, lack the necessary… _whatever-was-necessaries_ (Aziraphale had never been a great expert on zoology) required to adequately detoxify a system flooded with alcohol. The mammalian form was far better suited to the task, particularly that of the model _homo sapiens._

As such, instead of playing armchair to a small snake, the angel now found himself being squashed by a very much larger (although still, admittedly, rather small) human.

Crowley sobered up.

‘Hells bells, that was a bloody nasty hangover,’ the demon muttered grimly. ‘Must have been some party...’

‘Get off me,’ Aziraphale complained, punctuating his griping with a not-entirely-gentle shove. ‘And miracle some clothes, for goodness sake. It’s one thing for _snakes_ to go around bare-skinned, but humans doing so is rather more frowned upon. Even in _my_ circles...'

Crowley glanced down. ‘Oh for-- Where on earth did I leave my clothes? Remind me _never_ to go to parties with you, Aziraphale.'

'It's hardly _my_ fault if you have a proclivity when inebriated to revert to _snake_ guise and find someplace warm to fall asleep...'

A fashionable black and gold-trimmed dress materialised over Crowley’s small frame. The demon rolled off of the angel and sprawled out on the floor next to him with an irritated huff.

‘Well you could have _stopped_ me, couldn't you? Or at least picked up my-- ...Wait, was I wearing a dress or a tux last night?'

‘God only knows,’ Aziraphale muttered. ‘No one will pay any attention either way, I’m sure. It’s 1926, my dear. Anything goes.’

A dark-haired head dipped under the table with a bright smile. ‘1927 now, chaps!’ the girl barked, far too chipper for... _whatever_ time it was. ‘Happy New Year!’

‘Right, yeah… Happy New Year, er…’ Crowley mumbled. He frowned in concentration as he tried to place the girl's face, earning a cheery grin from the human who,, Crowley began to remember, did in fact have a name. ‘...Nancy, right?’

‘Well done, old thing. I see you’re already kicking the hangover to the curb. You give it a good what-for,’ Nancy laughed.

‘Ah, of _course_ , Aziraphale piped up. ‘New Year’s party, of course. Of course. Stephen’s, yes?’

‘Mmhm,’ Nancy replied, still half-upside-down leaning beneath the table. ‘Cracking good night, what?’

Aziraphale glanced down at his dishevelled state. ‘Evidently…’

‘David said you were a _riot,_ Ezra, but I didn’t believe him. Well-behaved old gent like you, bookshop owner, image of propriety… Proved me wrong, didn't you, old thing! I owe Davey a five pound note, because of you. He said you’d either end up on the table or under it, and if I recall rightly, I believe you managed _both_.'

Aziraphale groaned internally. He was far too old for this sort of behaviour, by several _millennia_ . Far too old and, of course, far too _angelic_...

But after the decade previous, the appeal of raucous partying, wild-living, and far, far too much alcohol had become incredibly appealing, to him, and to Crowley, and to the bright young things whom the angel had unexpectedly managed to fall in with. One of their set had begun referring to them as _the lost generation_ of late, and in many ways it seemed terribly fitting. After the horrors of _the Great War_ Aziraphale had certainly found himself wanting to get lost. The glitz and sparkle of the 1920s seemed to be designed to drive out the blackness of those terrible, awful years. He wasn't certain it was working (he knew full well that Crowley was still having the _nightmares_ ), but the chaos and glamour certainly proved a welcome distraction. Their manic brightness illuminated the dark like a flamethrower. 

Aziraphale shook such thoughts from his mind. It didn't do to dwell. It wouldn't do to get maudlin. Welcome in the New Year with a smile and some optimism.

And, of course, with a pinch of resigned embarrassment.

They really had been terribly drunk last night.

The angel and the demon both crawled out from beneath the table. Which, it turned out, was a dining table of a rather large dining room, now populated with several twenty-somethings looking extremely worse for wear.

Aziraphale smoothed out his shirt, and welcomed back his prodigal shoe with a quick and surreptitious miracle. He noticed that Crowley’s hair had sprung back to it's usual coiffed perfection. Both good as new. Mostly. 

‘Hair of the dog, chaps?’ 

Their evident host, the effervescent Stephen Tennant, shimmered into view and shoved a champagne flute into each of their hands. 

‘It’s a _mimosa_. Excellent chap at the _Ritz_ in Paris created it just lately, it’s marvellous. Champagne and orange juice. Just the thing for the morning after, take my word for it.’

Crowley shrugged and chugged the whole glass in one go. 

‘Not bad, actually. What d’you say he called it? A mimosa?’

‘Precisely. Love the dress, by the way, suits you much better than the tuxedo.’

‘Er, yeah…’ Crowley nodded distractedly, attention suddenly caught by the view from the window. ‘Stephen, where _are_ we? I thought we were at the _Gargoyle_ last night, but that is _definitely not Soho_ …’

‘Oh, no, we ditched the club at about two, don’t you remember?’

‘Oh dear me...’ Aziraphale said with a frown as he walkied over to the large bay window and looked out at the beautiful countryside beyond.

‘Well, Davey and I thought it would be a jolly good laugh to drop in on Father, and Nancy and Rex agreed, and then your friend here got rather enthusiastic about taking out that _wonderful_ new Bentley, and--’

‘Stephen, _where are we_?’ Crowley hissed, growing impatient.

‘Salisbury.’

 _‘Salisbury_!?’

‘Salisbury, that's what I said.’

‘What in the name of-- Salisbury is _miles_ from Soho!’ Aziraphale cried out, wringing his hands.

‘Mm, yes, it is rather. Took us a fair few hours to get down here. Father dearest was just setting out with the dogs when we arrived, actually. Although we did take a little longer getting here than planned. Nancy got a bit _lost_. Do you really not remember?’

Crowley groaned. ‘No. Yes. Yeah. I remember, now. She nearly ran her bloody car into my Bentley. My _brand new_ Bentley…’

‘ _Nearly_ , old thing, is not the same as _actually_. No harm no foul, what?’

‘What _time_ is it?’ Aziraphale cut in, looking around the room in vain for a clock. 

‘Er, about half one, last time I checked,’ Stephen replied brightly. ‘Mother dearest is putting on a late lunch for all of us, if you want to stay for it. Jolly good sport, she is.’

‘Half past one?! Oh… _bother_ ,’ Aziraphale didn’t curse. ‘I was supposed to be meeting with an antiques dealer at four this afternoon. I’ll never make it now…’

‘Tch, that’s a shame, old sport! Hey, but you can always rearrange, no?’

‘Not really. She’s over from Italy, and going back on the third. I doubt I’ll be able to see her before she leaves. Oh, but this is _infuriating_ …’

Crowley downed another mimosa and then clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. ‘We can make it.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley, we absolutely cannot drive all the way to _London_ in two hours.’

‘Wanna bet?’ the demon replied, eyes glittering. 

Crowley had _really taken_ to automobiles.

‘Do you really think we might be able get back that quickly?’ Aziraphale asked hesitatingly, voice laced with both scepticism and hope.

‘Definitely,’ Crowley replied. ‘But we’ll have to leave sharp-ish. No time for lunch with Lord and Lady Glenconnor, I’m afraid.’

‘More the better…’ the angel muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the demon, and no one else, to hear.

‘You rushing off then?’ Nancy said, breezing back into the room from wherever she’d disappeared to. 

‘Yep. Appointments to keep, you know how it is.’

‘Well, you and I, perhaps. To the idle youth of Mister Stephen Tennant however, the notion of keeping appointments is undoubtedly completely foreign, isn’t that right Stevie darling?’

‘One must remain _flexible_ , Nancy dearest, or one becomes _rigid_ , and no one wants that. Isn’t that right, Ezra?’

‘I suppose balance is what one must aim for, in all things,’ the angel replied expansively.

‘Precisely! Balance. And I balance remarkably well, between my bed, the dinner table, and the club. Perfect balancing act, my life. No one could accuse me of being anything _but_ balanced!’

‘Yeah…’ Crowley was beginning to remember why he didn’t make a habit of hanging around Aziraphale’s friends. ‘ _Anyway_ , we’ll be off now. Thanks for, er, having us…’

‘Yes, wonderful New Year’s celebration, my boy. Your brother’s club is coming along _marvellously._ You must talk me through the _Matisse_ ’s you purchased with him, I find his work _most_ intriguing, and--’

 _‘Come on,_ angel, do you want to get back in time or not? I’m a good driver but I’m not a miracle worker. Er.’

Aziraphale shot an amused glance at the demon. ‘Of course. You’re quite right. We must take our leave. Give my best wishes for the New Year to, erm, well, whoever is still here, I suppose. No doubt I will see you all in the near future. Oh! Do you know if Evelyn is back from Buckinghamshire yet? I had been hoping to talk with him about his book--’

 _‘Angel!_ ’

‘Right. Yes. Coming. Happy New Year, dear things, Happy New Year!’

And the angel followed the demon out to his car, which, much to the angel’s journeying terror, did in fact manage to get them to London before four o’clock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit obsessed with the 1920s again. It happens, periodically. And as we are about to enter the 2020s, I figured _screw it_ , I'll indulge myself. 1920s fic at midnight it is. Why not. 
> 
> Also I'm a bit in love with _Snake!Crowley Hiding In Aziraphale's Sleeves_ right now. It's too cute. I love it. 
> 
> As usual, this is hastily written, un-proof-read, unplanned nonsense. soznotsoz.
> 
> :D


	18. Auld Lang Syne

~⧖~

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,_

_and never brought to mind?_

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,_

_and auld lang syne?_

~⧖~

‘Where’s your friend, Ezra?’

‘Hm?’

‘Your friend? Anthony? Is he here?’

‘Oh, no. He’s out of the country, I’m afraid. America. On business.’

‘Oh, what a shame! We had hoped he’d be here.’

‘Yes, well. These things happen.’

‘Gosh, do you just miss him terribly when he’s away? I know I miss my Bill something awful whenever he travels without me. Especially at New Year’s. I’ve made it a rule now that if he ever has to travel over New Year, he has to bring me with him. When’s your Anthony back?’

‘I’m not really sure.’

‘Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. You two haven’t fallen out, or--’

‘Oh, no, nothing like that, just... Well. You know how it is.’

‘I’m sorry. Have I put my foot right in it?’

‘No, it’s fine. If you’ll excuse me, I have just remembered that I need to make a phone call. Back in jiffy.’

‘I’ll get Bill to call in another round of drinks. Do get back before midnight, darling!’

~⧖~

_And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup!_

_and surely I'll be mine!_

_And we'll tak' a cup o’ kindness yet,_

_for auld lang syne._

~⧖~

_‘Yeah?’_

‘Crowley?’

_‘What? Aziraphale? Is that you?’_

‘Yes. Happy New year.’

 _‘Are you calling_ transatlantic _, angel?’_

‘Well, obviously. I’m not in New York, am I?’

_‘I don’t know. Are you?’_

‘Of course I’m not. I’m in England. Obviously.’

 _‘Obviously. ...So, you’re calling transatlantic just to wish me_ Happy New Year _? Bit extravagant of you.’_

‘Yes, well... Has it gone midnight there yet, or are my well-wishes premature? I never can get my head around these blasted time zones. Are you ahead or behind me?’

_‘Behind. It’s only six-fifty-five, here.’_

‘Is it? Oh. It’s almost midnight, for me.’

_‘Mmhm, I know.’_

‘Oh.’

_‘You at a party, angel? I can hear music.’_

‘Not really a party, just a small get together. Molly and Bill invited me. Invited us both, actually.’

_‘Molly and Bill? Bloody hell, I haven’t seen them in years. How are they?’_

‘Oh, well enough. They’ve been living over in Sweden of all places. Their daughter is still over there, in fact. Marrying a local boy, by all accounts.’

_‘But Bill and Molly have come back to England?’_

‘Yes, for his work.’

_‘Oh, right.’_

‘Mm.’

_‘Nice of them to invite you. Us. I mean. Surprised they even remember us.’_

‘Well, I make a point to always send them a Christmas card.’

_‘Really?’_

‘I think they still feel rather _indebted_ after that whole--’

_‘Doesn’t that make it a bit awkward?’_

‘A bit.’

_‘Are you calling on their phone?’_

‘No, we’re at an hotel, they booked out one of the function rooms. Open bar and buffet, rather good, actually.They aren’t back in England to stay, you see, just for a few weeks. Then they are off to Japan, I believe.’

_‘How international of them.’_

‘Such is life in the technology sector. Or, at least, so Bill has told me. At great length…’

_‘Hah! He always did know how to bore a room to tears.’_

‘He cornered me for an _hour_ , Crowley. I know more about _Binary Electronic Systems Calculators_ than I have ever wished to. They have, apparently, moved on exponentially in the past five years. Main-memories of five hundred and twelve bit words are now a thing of the past, you know. The biax-type memory will be up and running by next year, so I’m told.’

_‘Oh, really? Wow. Fascinating.’_

‘Isn’t it just? I had to pretend to choke on an olive just to get away.’

_‘I’m sorry, angel, I know I shouldn’t laugh. I really ought to have been there to rescue you, shouldn’t I?’_

‘Mm, would have been handy.’

_‘Hey, forty-five seconds to midnight your end.’_

‘Is it? Already?’

_‘Yep. Do you want to, er, get back to your party, or…’_

‘Oh, well. Seeings as you’re on the line, I may as well--’

_‘Yeah, right. Might as well.’_

‘I don’t have a watch on me.’

‘ _You’re hopeless, you know that? And… There we go. Happy New Year, angel.’_

~⧖~

_We two have paddled in the stream,_

_from morning sun till dine,_

_But seas between us broad have roared,_

_Since auld lang syne._

~⧖~

‘Hello?’

‘ _Hey, angel!’_

‘Crowley?’

_‘The one and only.’_

‘Crowley, it is five in the morning…’

_‘Yeah, didn’t wake you, did I?’_

‘No, but--’

‘ _And it’s not quite five, is it? It’s five minutes to five. Five minutes to midnight, here.’_

‘Ah.’

‘ _What’s that supposed to mean?’_

‘What? “Ah”?’

‘ _No “Ah”. It’s the way you say it.’_

‘How do I say it?’

‘ _Never mind. You weren’t sleeping then?’_

‘I rarely do, you know that.’

‘ _What are you doing? Are you still out?_ ’

‘As you are speaking to me on the bookshop phone, I’ll leave you to figure out that puzzle...’

‘ _Oh, yeah, of course.’_

‘Are you? Out? I’ve heard that New York’s New Year’s Eve parties are, what’s the colourful phrase you use? _Something else_?’

‘ _So they say. Not really my scene, though. I’m just at home.’_

‘Home? You’ve purchased a place over there, then?’

‘ _Oh. Er. Right, well, no, not exactly. Just renting. Nothing permanent, or anything. Got a bit sick of hotels.’_

‘You’re staying over there for a while, then?’

_‘Not if I can help it.’_

‘For the next few months though, at least?’

‘ _Mm, it’s looking that way._ ’

…

‘ _Angel, hold out your hand.’_

‘What? Why?’

‘ _J_ _ust do it, all right?’_

‘Fine.’

‘ _Don’t sigh at me. Hand out?’_

 _‘_ Yes…’

‘ _Th_ _ree, two, one--’_

‘I would be right to assume that the glass of champagne which just materialised in my hand comes courtesy of the demon in the dark glasses at the far end of the bar?’

 _‘Far end of the sofa in his over-priced New York flat, but yes, you’ve got the right basic idea, angel._ ’

‘Only proper for me to return the favour, then. Steady hand, please, and --’

‘ _A_ Grasshopper _? Really, Aziraphale?’_

‘What?’

_‘I send you a champagne flute of exceptionally good vintage, and in return you send me a cocktail made of ice cream and creme de menthe? Classy, angel. Classy.’_

‘I’ve seen how many sugars you put in your coffee, my dear, don’t try to act sophisticated with me. And you _adore_ mint chocolate chip ice cream. What better than mixing it with alcohol?’

‘ _Not very cool though, is it?’_

‘Put some ice cubes in it, then.’

_‘Hah hah…’_

‘The clock on my desk says it’s thirty seconds to, now.’

_‘My watch says ten.’_

_‘_ Do you want to do a countdown?’

‘ _Not particularly._ ’

‘...Happy New Year, my dear boy.’

~⧖~

_And there's a hand my trusty friend!_

_And give me a hand o' thine!_

_And we'll take a right good-will draught,_

_For the sake of auld lang syne._

~⧖~


End file.
